


Sketch of a Cat

by FadedSepia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, I'm treating these movies like toys in a sandbox, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) is a Good Bro, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Canon Compliant, Pining Bucky Barnes, Steve can't catch a break, Tags Subject to Change, accidentally winterhawk?, callous hydra notes, clinical descriptions of traumatic injury, clintasha teamwork, descriptions of blood and biting, old school spycraft incoming, strike team delta reference, the one where bucky is a cat, the winter kitten, wanted to sail the bro boat but wound up on the shipping ship, wrote this instead of my dissertation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 65,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Times like this, Bucky really missed his other arm. ‘course, he also missed hot showers, and licorice, and thumbs. He’d gladly be stuck with one arm if he could get one of his thumbs back.Clint Barton isn't surprised when he picks up another battered looking stray. Maybe it's the fact that he begs for coffee, comes when called, and answers when Clint talks to him. Maybe it's the tags linking him back to a man Clint's only marginally convinced isn't just the assassins version of the bogeyman. But something about the cat just isn't quite right, and Clint's never been smart enough to just avoid this kind of weird crap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this assuming _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ didn't actually happen, but that some of the cinematic universe _did_ happen. I'll add notes as necessary for clarification
> 
> This is my first posted work of Marvel fiction. I'm not sure how well it went, but it was fun.
> 
> Inspiration for this story came from [@lizabethl on tumblr](http://lizabethl.tumblr.com/), and the poem [_Cat, Failing_ by Robin Robertson](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/49899/cat-failing).
> 
>  
> 
> .

The sun had just slipped down to the horizon, silhouetting the skyline he had slowly come to recognize as New York. He’d been drowsing on the rooftop fire-escape, stretching across the still warm grating, when he heard the yell from below. “Hey, Sarge! This slice has anchovies. You want?”

Bucky considered not dignifying the obnoxious shouting from the window below, but thought better of it. He knew that Clint – _Hawkeye_ – had ordered the anchovy not by accident, but for him. He’d taken Bucky in without question, didn’t raise an eyebrow at his schedule, and picked up the tab on Bucky’s food without complaining. The guy might look like a walking warning on the perils of bachelorhood, but he was one of the Avengers. He worked with Stevie. And Bucky was willing to put up with nearly _anyone_ to get back to Stevie after this much time. Plus, there was a little piece of himself that admired Clint, watching as the archer held his own without being anything more than human. No tech. No magic. Just grit and practice, and a healthy heaping of reckless stupidity. No further enhancements.

 _Further enhancements_. That had been what one of his handlers had called them. At least, that’s what his fragmented snippets of memory left him to think. The Asset hadn’t been wiped when they started this last round, bits of Bucky Barnes beginning to leech through even before the strange glowing had started on the edge of his vision and left him like this. The knockoff serum had been his first enhancement. The arm – now gone the way of his thumbs – had been the second. Something was supposed to have been the third, but–

“Sarge, get down here you fuzzy asshole, or I’m giving the fish-bits to Lucky!”

With an indignant yowl – because fuck if that stupid mutt was getting any of _his_ food – Bucky leaped from the edge of the roof, landing gracefully despite the missing front paw, and slipped in through the open window. Clint had already set up a bowl for him on the counter, and was slowly picking the anchovies off a slice of pizza, humming as he dropped them onto the pile of wet food.

“There you are. Thought we’d have to eat without you.” The words were mumbled around a half chewed mouthful of crust. Bucky nudged apologetically into Clint’s hand, getting a few quick scratches behind his ear before the man shooed him away and reached for his coffee.

They ate in the quiet kitchen, the only real noise coming from Lucky eating straight from a box of pizza Clint had left open for him on the floor.

☆°•°•°•

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up enough to let Clint know she thought it was at least a little endearing. “So now you’ve got a three-legged cat to match the one-eyed dog? Where’d you pick up this one?”

“I didn’t pick him up, ‘Tasha. That’s what’s weird.” He slid the death by chocolate cake across the table, trading for her apple pie. “He _followed_ me.”

She reached forward, pulling his post-mission espresso away with a soft click of her tongue. “Somebody is dehydrated and probably concussed.”

“I’m serious.” He fumbled the first time. And the second. But, finally, on the third, he snagged the cup back from her manicured grip, tucking his arm around it and hunching further over his dessert, just in case. “The first time I saw him was that awful job with the slime things up in Ohio–”

“ _‘Toxic Terror of Cuyahoga County’_?”

“Mmhmm– and then, again in Maryland with the giant aquatic hedgehogs–”

“ _‘Prickly Peril in the Potomac’_?”

“Yes – damnit, Nat, stop interrupting!” He took a bite of pie, but kept speaking around it, anyway. “– And then two months ago he showed up on my roof!”

“So you’re being stalked by a cat?”

“A _weird_ cat.”

“…” Natasha gave him another _look_. “So… you’re being stalked by a cat?”

“Just...” He ran his fingers through his hair, downed the last dregs of his coffee, and set his head on the table. Of course she thought he was crazy. He went over the last few weeks in his head, trying to figure out how to explain these things – really fucking _weird_ things – without sounding crazy. Or, all things considered, crazier. Because going insane was actually a more reasonable explanation than accepting the things he’d seen Sergeant do.

How was he supposed to explain that the cat liked to watch him clean his sidearm, and had once tried to help? That he’d caught Sergeant tossing his dirty socks into the hamper? That he’d seen the cat turn off the television when he was dozing on the couch? That it fucking knocked and waited for an answer before trying to open the bathroom door? That it once flushed the toilet when he got in the shower before feeding it?!

How was he supposed to explain that his cat acted more like an grumpy – if fuzzy – _man_ and not like a normal, _fuck-you-human_ street cat? Clint sighed, again, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes. “Just come by and _see_ him, okay? It’s an open invite, and it’s not like you need a reason.”

•°•°•°☆

It had prowled in a few minutes after Natasha arrived. It slipped in the window, bypassing the trash, the dog, and Clint, and had settled itself on the counter beside her. The cat was staring at her, long brown fur raised slightly in agitation. Usually, she wouldn’t have cared – Liho stared all the time – but, usually, animals didn’t look at her like they were sizing her up for a fight. Maybe Clint had been right about this cat being… _unusual_. “Close the window.”

She heard the casement come down somewhere behind her. The cat’s eyes flicked off over her shoulder, nose wrinkling a bit before it locked eyes with her, again. It growled, leaping from the counter, the jingling of its collar echoing as it padded off into the living room.

Clint slipped up behind her, settling his chin on her shoulder for the barest moment. “See? He’s weird...”

“It followed you–?”

“From Cleveland.”

“Right...” They’d been in Cleveland handling what seemed to be the creature of the week, but it hadn’t been the first time she and Clint had seen the city recently. It had been a HYDRA base, two, maybe three years ago? And the sort of tampering HYDRA did tended to rear its head – _heads_ – years, sometimes decades, after the fact… But she couldn’t go down that rabbit hole just yet. This might still be a case of Clint on too little sleep and too much caffeine, combined with a cat that was just as normal as everything else in their lives. So totally _abnormal_ , but not overly _dangerous_. “Why Sarge?”

Clint shrugged, arm up behind his head, and gave her his best good-old-boy grin. “Well, I was gonna go with Tripod, but he didn’t like that. I tried a coupla names, but then I saw his tags...”

“So he has an owner?”

“ _Had_ maybe? And the guy’d have to be over a hundred by now,or maybe just weird so… lemme show ya.” Picking up the cups of coffee she’d been too focused on the cat to see him pour, he ambled into the living room and flopped to seated. She took the cup as she perched beside him, reticent to fully sit on what could only charitably describe as _a couch_. “C’mere, Sergeant.”

The cat sat up on its haunches next to the television. It looked pointedly at Natasha before turning to look out the window.

“Sergeant...” Clint’s voice was more demanding this time. The cat continued ignoring him, tail flicking in agitation.

“Snyegahvik!”

As startled as she was to hear her partner yell, Natasha almost missed the way the cat jerked in response. It hissed, hackles raised… and then jumped, first onto the coffee table, then onto the couch. It settled between them, leaning its empty left shoulder against Clint’s leg, head lowering on its remaining paw, and Natasha could swear it was genuinely trying to glare at her.

It wasn’t ugly, at least. Long-haired, dark brown on the top and cream on face and chest, it would have actually been a rather pretty cat. Minus the whole issue of missing a leg and not having been properly brushed in ages. It’s folded ears were almost hidden in long fur, but it was its eyes that drew her attention. She’d seen heterochromia in dogs and cats before, but not like this. Sergeant’s eyes were brown at the edge, but, just along the slit of each pupil, she could swear she saw a hint of pale blue.

“He hates that, but it makes him listen...”

The cat blinked, head swiveling to look up at Clint, and yowled until it had been sufficiently petted.

“Right, so… C’mere, bud.” He reached beneath the cat’s neck, twisting the worn collar around to show off a set of dog tags attached where a license ought to go. He showed her the one of top. “See, it says ‘ _Sergeant squiggly B–squiggle squiggle, 1917 Mar squiggle_.’ But I shortened it to just ‘Sergeant.’”

Natasha reached to inspect it herself, but was stopped by a quick swipe of white paw. The cat’s eyes stayed locked on her as it scooted closer against Clint’s side. Clint shrugged, as if to say _what did you expec_ t, and took a sip of his coffee.

She picked up her own, glad to see that there was actually cream in it to cut the sludginess. “What do the other ones say?”

“Okay, this is where the weird starts.” Coffee back on the table, Clint had one hand on the cat’s back while the other lifted the remaining tags. On the round one, that looked to be newer than the oblong tags, ' _Snowman_ ' had been etched in blocky Cyrillic.

That explained the Russian, but not the cat’s reaction. It certainly didn’t _like_ the name. Then there was the added fact that, “It’s not even white?”

“Exactly! Who names a brown cat ‘Snowman’? But...” Clint took a deep breath, showing, flipping up the last tag. Like the first, it was worn, but there was enough for her to make out, and for him to read to her anyway. “ _‘Captain squiggly squiggles Rogers, 1918 J-squig 04.’_ ”

He looked back at her, unnerved and a bit lost, and Natasha was sure she wore a similar expression. Between them, Sergeant started kneading at the cushion.


	2. Chapter 2

Some things, it seemed, would never change. Even like this, Bucky still had nightmares more often than not. Booted steps, and the pain of cudgels from the early years, when he’d have to be forced into cryosleep. Accusations in the voices of those he’d killed, echoing too far in his brain for the hands slapped over his ears to block. Visions of waking in the frigid darkness, sightless and immobile, with nothing waiting for him but sharp teeth, the gnawing guilt of his tattered conscience pulling him backwards, yanking his scruff and drooling – _drooling_? – as he was hoisted from the warmth of the darkness – _hadn’t everything been frozen?_ – flying upwards, hands flailing for purchase –

“-ucky… Wha..?”

 _Yes_. That was it. He wasn’t there anymore. He’d gotten out, and now he was safe with…

“Lucky! Drop him.”

_What?_

Bucky blinked as he landed, startled awake as calloused hands scooped him up against the folds of a sweatshirt. Clint stroked a few times to smooth down the fur along his neck where Lucky had picked him up. “Heeey, Sarge… You havin’ a little nightmare?”

He squirmed in the light grip, trying to make sense of where he was. He remembered curling up on the pillow that Clint left behind the television for him, but nothing afterward. He hadn’t really slept for the past few days, what with being back on the roof while Clint was out on a mission. Bucky was sure the archer wouldn’t mind him staying in the apartment – Clint had made a clear offer of permanence by putting a litter box in an unused corner of the kitchen – but he disliked the idea of being stuck inside without an escape plan.

So when Lucky had been bustled off for the a few days by Hawkeye – the _other_ one – he'd slipped out behind them and gone back up to his little nest under the rooftop air handlers. He hadn’t felt safe enough to really rest up there, keeping an eye open for three days before slinking back in to laze around the apartment once Clint returned. And, yeah, he always had nightmares when he slept too deeply, had since the first time with Zola. With his brain still trying to reconstruct itself, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d spent the first year of whatever this was wondering if he was just a delusional cat, how he knew what delusions were if he _was_ a cat, and whether this whole experience was just one more terrifying cryo delusion.

But Clint was making low soothing sounds and still petting him, pulling him up onto one of the pillows and scratching that finicky spot behind his left ear that he just couldn’t reach, and that helped a little. Bucky settled himself on the pillow next to Clint’s face, fighting the urge to snuggle against his forehead. Yeah, maybe he _did_ kind of like that way those strong fingers were rubbing along the top of his head, but he was going to maintain _some_ dignity. It had taken him long enough to remember he was supposed to be human; he couldn’t go indulging the impetuous _cat brain_ he’d been saddled with.

That was how you wound up chasing squirrels across Pine Lake Park.

Still, he felt safer up here on the bed, Clint once more softly snoring into his pillow, Lucky sprawled across most of the rest of the bed next to him. It was nice. And, well, if he purred just a little as he nodded back off, maybe that was alright.

 ☆°•°•°•

_Tap._

There was something on his face.

_Tap._

It was like getting prodded with a cotton ball gone half solid.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

It wasn’t going away. Huh. Clint cracked one eye open, squinting in the pre-dawn twilight. Shit. What time was it? _TAP._ The little white paw landed on his forehead once more, this time followed by a firm press and a soft grumbling. Still bleary-eyed, he managed to focus enough to make out the dark lump of a cat next to him on the pillow. “Hey...?”

“Mreow.”

“Um...”

Sergeant didn’t wait for him to respond, walking across his arm and chest, feet heavy on his midsection. With a flick of his tail, Sarge jumped down and padded for the door. He glanced over his armless shoulder, then locked eyes with Clint, “Mrrrow,” before padding down the stairs.

Well, damn. He was awake now, might as well follow the roommate cat. As he hunted for a decent pair of sweatpants – one of the few pairs not covered in grease or blood, and with no holes in embarrassing places – he tried to parse through this new routine they seemed to have.

Clint had started letting the cat sleep in the bedroom with him following a few too many nights of Lucky trying to _rescue_ Sergeant from what looked suspiciously like night terrors. If cats had those? Which, well, maybe _this_ cat did, but this cat was _weird_. Keeping said weird cat in the bed with him made for a nicer, less grumpy cat, though. It also meant Clint wasn't awoken when Lucky deposited a flailing ball of claws and teeth onto his bed. Or, worse, onto his face.

He still wasn’t sure why the damn thing acted so human. Natasha had agreed to check a few leads she might have, and he’d left her to it. She liked that sort of real spy shit, especially if it let her dig around in old SHIELD files. All he knew was that the cat either belonged to somebody who had stolen personal effects off one of the Howling Commandos, or had a really fucked up sense of humour.

But this was their thing now, he and the cat, and it wasn’t so bad. Sergeant wanted out around sunrise, free reign to come and go when he was at the apartment, and then back in just after sunset if Clint wasn’t working. If he was, the cat would usually slip back into the apartment whenever he got back. He didn’t think he was being followed, but he wouldn’t put it past the furball. Sarge was smart.

_CLICK!_

Too smart, most of the time. Clint couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised that the cat was sitting next to the just-turned-on coffee maker, watching as he brought Lucky down the stairs. “Um... Thanks?”

He tried to ignore the way the those slitted eyes tracked his movements around the kitchen as he shuffled about his chores; setting down water and more food for Lucky, pulling out a few Uncrustables from the stash he hung on to in case Peter got stuck out his way on a school night, scrubbing the grime off of yesterday’s mug. By then, the coffee was done, and this time Clint actually _saw_ the cat flip the switch to turn it off.

Too fucking smart, that’s what it was.

He poured himself a cup, taking enough of a sip to burn his tongue – “Shith!” – before setting it down. Sergeant sidled up and butted into his side. Clint obliged, scratching behind the cat’s ears for a few minutes as he tried to get his brain working.

He had just about gotten a schedule together for the day – laundry, food, trainee reviews, training, review mission briefs, nap – by the time his coffee was far enough from scalding to drink. It was turning out to be an almost a decent start to a too early morning. At least until he noticed the cat leaning forward to lap out of his mug. “Awww, Sergeant, no..! No caffeine for you, cat... Heh... _Catfeine_...”

Clint hadn’t known cats could roll their eyes. Sarge looked first at him, then at the dog now scrounging for pizza, then back at the half-eaten strawberry frozen sandwich he’d left on the counter. It was a look that clearly said, ‘ _You are judging me?’_

“... Fine.”

Sarge was contented with one more sip of the coffee before walking away, this time headed for the fire-escape window.

“Why the hell not?” Clint shuffled over to him. This would be so much easier if he’d just put in those casement windows last summer. He muscled the sticky panes upwards. Once it was sufficiently open, Sergeant jumped up onto the window, giving him another of his nudges, this one that meant something between _Thanks_ and _Finally_.

“Checking the perimeter, Sarge?”

The cat mrowled, and Clint could almost swear he nodded before slinking out into the morning haze of the city.

 •°•°•°☆

“Hold up a minute, you need me to _what_?!” Sam was pretty certain Clint wasn’t okay, the way he was talking right now. Not that it was his _professional_ opinion, just that Barton seemed to be rambling about his damn cat in a way he hadn’t heard from anyone in their right mind. Of course, Barton _did_ live alone on a steady diet of caffeine and self-induced injuries, so maybe this was to be expected.

“ _Sam, I know it’s weird, but I need you to cat sit because Sergeant has nightmares.”_

“Your cat has nightmares?” He shifted the phone up onto his shoulder, unable to resist the urge to google ‘ _[do cats have nightmares](https://www.google.com/search?q=do+cats+have+nightmares),’_ and finding an article that seemed to answer that question with _‘[maybe](https://www.catological.com/cats-dream-nightmares/)?_’ 

“ _Yeah. Bad ones.”_ There was a huff and a sigh from the other end of the line. It sounded like Barton closed the door before he whispered, _“Like Steve-level bad, so I can’t leave him alone this week when I’m away.”_

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep from dropping into his _calm therapist_ voice. Even if it sounded ridiculous, this was important to Barton. He spoiled that dopey dog of his, of course he was going to spoil this new pet. Sam just really, truly, did not want to deal with a spazzy tomcat this weekend. There had to be somebody else Clint could trust with the thing, right? "Natasha can’t watch him?”

_“Nat’s in a deep cover op for at least a month.”_

Huh. That explained his win on their ongoing words-with-friends game, at least. “Tony?”

_“Hates cats.”_

Unsurprising. “Bruce?”

_“Conference in Munich.”_

“Steve?” Surely, if there was anyone who looked like the kind of guy to rescue a cat, it was Steve.

_“Living in the tower; Tony hates cats.”_

_Damnit_. Who else did they even know? Or, more to the point, who in their poker group owed him or Clint a favour? “Scott? Matt? Peter?”

_“It’s Scott's weekend with Cassie, and she’s allergic. Matt's been kinda off lately. Peter works nights, and Sarge needs someone with a normal-ish schedule.”_

“...” Who the hell else did he know that might be willing to watch a three legged, neurotic nightmare cat? There were eight and half _million_ people in that city, and one of them just _had_ to be able to take care of Hawkeye’s precious pampered pu- cat. Cat. “Did you try Doreen?”

_“Doreen?! Really, Sam? Why not suggest Jess, huh?”_

“He might live if Doreen was watching him. Clint, come on, you can’t be this serious about a damn cat, man. Just leave him some dry food and a couple litter boxes, and-”

“ _What happened to Bird Bros, Sam?”_ The line was silent after that question.

“I...” It was low. Even for Clint ‘ _I don’t cheat, I just ensure victory at any cost’_ Barton, it was low. Theirs was a sacred birdy bromance – bolstered on puns, internet stans who called themselves things like _Bird-Spotters_ and _Raptor-Fans_ , and a mutual love of pranking Steve – and Clint was gonna bring that up over cat-sitting? Well, then.

“Fine. Yeah, okay, fine. I’ll watch your damn nightmare-having cat. But I’m _not_ coming up to New York, so you’ll just have to bring him down here on Friday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky may have stopped in Levittown, NJ, on his way to Clint's apartment
> 
> Yes, I like to imagine a poker group with Jessica Jones, Daredevil, Antman, Hawkeye, and Falcon. I imagine Spider Man and Squirrel Girl are just there to eat the chips and make sure the supposed _grown-ups_ end the night with nobody killing each other. (Also, before anyone jumps on me, I love Doreen Green, and Squirrel Girl has been the only comic I've followed steadily since it was rebooted a few years ago. I even sent in fanart to the comic of a crocheted squirrel, and I'm sure Doreen would be _fine_ taking care of a cat. I'm more worried Bucky might be stupid and try to chew on one of her friends.)
> 
> I did google _do cats have nightmares_. Feel free to click on those links to see what you find.
> 
> Yes, Sam did self-censor and stop his brain from referring to Sarge the Nightmare Cat as Clint's _pampered pussy(cat)_.
> 
> In the next chapter, you'll get to hear a bit more about the _Bird-Spotters_. I looked up _BirdWatchers.net_ , and - in my country, at least - that website doesn't exist. Not that I'm saying it should be a fan site for Falcon and Hawkeye, but...


	3. Chapter 3

 

“You’re three hours late, man– Shit, Barton, what happened to your arms? And your...” Sam pointed at the noticeable lump in Clint’s sweat-shirt. For his part, Barton tugged his sleeve down further, widening the holes in the arms, through which welting claw marks were still visible.

Sam stepped back to let the other man in, quickly closing the door behind him. Thankfully it was late enough that none of his neighbours were out to see Hawkeye roll up like a full-time disaster, arms shredded and looking like he was smuggling rotisserie chickens in under his clothes. “Is that... did that cat do that?”

“Yeah, um... seems Sarge’s not too keen on trains.” As if in agreement – and damn was that a freaking _huge_ cat – Sergeant poked his head through the neck of Clint’s sweatshirt, chirp-growling. Using his single front leg, the cat clawed tightly into the fabric, back feet scrabbling as he pushed himself up onto Clint’s shoulder. He perched there, like a furry, grumpy toddler, head tilted as he considered Sam. Barton kept talking.

“Sam, this is Sergeant B. Scribbles.”

The cat growled. Clint continued with his introduction.

“Sarge, this is Airman – wait, you’re retired, right? No, never mind, anyway, _ahem!_ – Sarge, this is Sam Wilson.”

The cat sniffed at him, head almost nodding.

What was he supposed to do? Shake the thing’s hand? After what it had done to Clint, Sam was pretty sure he didn’t want _that_ anywhere near his furniture, let alone his _skin_. The cat just looked at him, like this was a challenge. Sam extended a hand towards it, ready for a swipe or a hiss.

Sergeant tapped the tips of his fingers with his single white paw, then alighted on his shoulder. He was even heavier than he looked. “Hawkeye... why is your cat on me?” Said cat pawed gently at his face, giving another little nod.

“I told him you were cool. Pretty sure Sarge was in the service in a past life or something–”

“What?”

“– Told him about your VA work on the way down. Seemed pretty interested.” Hawkeye dropped his backpack, unloading it as he spoke. The cat jumped down onto the floor and inspected the growing pile before wandering off to explore the rest of the house. “Here’s his food, his pillow – put that behind something up off the ground so he can hide – and here’s a can of anchovies. He gets one on his food every night if he behaves.”

“Is there... Is there anything else?” Sam had never thought he’d be friends with one of those crazy cat people. Though, if even half of what Clint had told him over the phone was true, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Clint was a _crazy cat_ person and not a crazy _cat person_? Or maybe all the falls and sleep deprivation were finally catching up.

“Yeah. He wants a spoonful or two of coffee every friggen morning–”

“Mroorou!” echoed back from the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah. Preferably before dawn. Jackass'll wake you up for it – EVEN THOUGH I TOLD HIM TO BEHAVE –” The cat yowled, again. “–so be ready. Don’t touch his tags and, um...”

Sam could see the other man casing the room, and couldn’t help following his gaze. When they were sure nothing was in sight, Clint pulled him in close, voice a strained hush. “Don’t let on when he acts like a not-cat. He thinks he’s got me fooled.”

“Riiiight...” Shit, Jesus, what had he gotten himself into?

 ☆°•°•°•

“Sarge. Mess.”

Bucky rolled onto his back, head lolling off the edge of the bookshelf as he looked at Sam upside-down. The man had just gotten back from his morning run. Time for coffee and breakfast, then. He waited for Wilson to head into the kitchen before jumping down and stalking after him.

He was no Clint, but Sam Wilson was an alright guy. The house was organized, orderly, and neat, if a little blah. No arrows to bat out of the walls or dog to mess with if he got bored, but no worries about dying in a pizza box avalanche, either.

Wilson stuck to a regular schedule: run, breakfast, work, home. It was easy to get into a routine here, and with the lack of constant chaos, it was all too easy to forget that Sam was one of them, too. Another Avenger. Another person he had to make a good impression on. Another connection to Stevie and the old life he sometimes thought he remembered. He took his usual spot on the counter, waiting patiently for coffee beside his bowl.

“Vacation’s almost over, cat. Barton’s picking you up tonight.”

There was the spoonful of coffee, but why did Sam always have to add _milk_ to it? Why didn’t anybody put chicory in their coffee, anymore? Damn, but it would be so easy to knock this onto the floor. Quite appropriate, very cat. _‘I told him to behave...’_ Of course, doing that would leave a pretty bad impression, and on the day Clint was supposed to pick him up, too.

Sam gave his head a light scratch, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve got a charity event this afternoon, and you stink.”

Bucky tried _not_ to be offended, really, but gave himself a little sniff, just in case. He smelled like cat, but, beyond that, it was hard to tell.

“So, two options.” He resisted the urge to bat at the fingers Sam held up; it was an awfully tempting thought. “Option one: I set you outside for the day, and you promise not to wander off.”

That _did_ sound pretty good. The family next door had a bird feeder, and they were gone on holiday. He could practice his stalking a little bit – cat or not, he couldn’t let his skills languish any further than they had. But it was also getting to be chilly, even this far south, and there was a dearth of easy warming spots out here in the suburbs. Bucky mewled, waiting for option two, trying to ignore Sam’s chuckle.

“Option two: You come with me and we show off a little. But!” Sam clicked his tongue and gave Bucky a quick glance, head shaking. “That look might have worked for Barton, but if you’re heading out with _me_? Then we have to do something about this whole… mess. You’ve gotta have a bath, Sarge.”

If Wilson was doing charity work, it was probably Avengers business. He really ought not to miss that opportunity. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t _tried_ to get himself washed up before. Not _his_ fault Clint kept kicking him out of the shower. As long as he didn’t try to take off his tags, Bucky didn’t really mind if Sam gave him a wash. He chose not to respond, ignoring Sam in favour of his bowl of food and few laps of milky coffee. When Sam went upstairs to the bathroom, though, Bucky followed.

 •°•°•°☆

Clint had felt dead and dug up when he’d finally parked in front of Sam’s house to pick up Sergeant. He’d been genuinely shocked to see the pictures up on _BirdWatcher_ , more so by the positive response. Apparently, people were very curious to know about the ‘ _big bird cat_.’ He'd have to come up with a bio to let slip at some point.

What he _hadn’t_ been was surprised when Sarge slept through the exchange of picking him up. The cat was tired; so was he. And, even starting off at two in the morning, they’d spent five and a half hours in the car yesterday. Or was it two days ago? No, after midnight meant that morning had been yesterday and now this morning – 11:45 was still  _technically morning_  – was today. Good thing Lucky was still with Katie-Kate, or he’d have had to get up and feed- “Crap..!”

For once, he had remembered to take his aids out before collapsing. As soon as they were in, he was assaulted by the sounds of angry yowling coming from his living room. The train debacle had prompted him to actually get Sarge a cat carrier. Going sixty-one hours on a shot of espresso and a kitkat had meant he forgot to let the cat out when they finally got in this morning. Yesterday.  “Aww... cat, no...”

•°☆

The resultant mauling by a tripodal whirlwind of claws and rage was probably exactly what he deserved. Now he sat on the floor, bloodied, hungry, and under-caffeinated, trying to coax sixteen pounds of pissed off kitty out from under a newly shredded-up corner of his couch.

Sarge hissed, eyes glinting, swiping at his fingers with the one good paw.

This was going to be a long afternoon...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant the cat looks like what would happen if a Maine Coon and a Scottish Fold had a huge grumpy baby, with the more solid colours and drooped ears of a Scottish fold, and the overwhelming size and fluffiness of a Maine Coon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair Warning: I got over-Spiderman-ed over the years, and Homecoming was the _only_ MCU film I missed, so... Please forgive me if Peter is just horribly written? He will literally show up only one more time in this whole fic.

Bucky still hadn’t quite forgiven Barton – who would _maybe_ work his way back to being Clint – for leaving him in a fucking cage for a day. Yes, it had been a week since then; and, yes, Barton had given him a real bath, _shucks_ -ing and _crap-Sarge-_ ing and apologizing the entire time. Yes, the man had left the window open 24/7, even when he wasn’t home, so Bucky could come and go as he wished. Barton had given him extra anchovies with each meal. A new pillow next to the couch. A plush hand grenade full of catnip, along with a target patterned scratching board. Free reign to build a nest out of Barton’s softest hoodies. And, yes, even his own miniature coffee cup to lap from in the morning. So Bucky _would_ forgive him…

… Just not yet.

He might have moved past most the feelings of anger behind the betrayal, but the fear was still there. Barton had left him in a _cage_. It was plastic, and roomy, and came with a soft towel to claw at, but it was a cage nonetheless. He’d been helpless to free himself, his autonomy controlled by another, even if that person was a little more than a coffee-seeking zombie with good aim. And as much as he’d struggled to escape, his first moment of freedom had filled him with abject terror. Bucky had spent too many of his hundred-odd years hemmed in by training, protocol, chemicals, and honest-to-god _human cages_ not to be terrified. First freedom only ever reminded him of recapture. Even if it was just the span of a day in a cat carrier. Terror made it mighty fucking difficult to trust, and the lack of trust hindered the forgiveness.

The squeaky grenade skittered across the coffee table following his swipe. Bucky mewled softly to himself. By the sound of the phone call preceding his departure, Barton had gone off to check on the cat owned by that Natasha woman. He didn’t exactly want the man here, but still found himself missing the other’s presence in the apartment. And something about the redhead had been unsettling. Familiar, almost, but still not quite right.

He batted the plush toy from the table. The slight whiff of catnip, though pleasant, did nothing to settle his nerves. He needed something around him. Enclosing, but not a wall. Nothing fully solid. He’d had a jacket once. Or maybe a vest? For now, though, a hoodie would do.

Stairs were still a bit of a hassle going up – the ones in the apartment were open on one side, and he risked falling off altogether if he went too quickly. Burrowing up through the bottom of the largest hoodie in his apology nest, though, was simple enough once he got to the bedroom. Bucky shimmied until he could push his head out through the neck hole, then curled in until only the tip of his tail was visible near the hood.

It was cozy. Dark, certainly, but warm and soft; he could leave any time he wanted. For now, though, this was the best place to be if he planned to get some sleep. Bucky tried not to think about why he liked this ratty old thing more than his nice soft pillow. After all, why should it matter that _this_ smelled like Clint?

☆°•°•°•

His feet were light on the rooftop. No one would know he was here. Okay, so, so maybe that wasn’t quite true, because he was kind of expected at some point, but it would still be a little bit of a surprise. A surprise with snacks, and-

“I know you're there, kid.”

Dangit! Peter sighed, stepping around the old water tower and out into the dim street glare shining onto the roof of the Bed Stuy apartment block. He sat on the edge of the roof next to Hawkeye in a space where the man had dusted away some of the day’s snow, setting the pizza between them. “How did you know it was me?”

“Not many people sneak up on my roof at two in the morning with a pizza and no coat.”

"Well, I was gonna go in through the window – what with the snow and all – but then I saw you up here.” He pulled the hoodie out of his backpack, shrugging it on over his suit. Out of the bright light, he could almost pass it off as a hoodie and skinny jeans, and there wasn’t anybody down there looking up. “Why are you on the roof, anyway?”

“My building, my rules. Complaining?” He did _not_ sound happy. And he didn’t have a coat either. Or real shoes, not that Peter looked.

“N-no, Mr Barton. Hawkeye. Sir. Clint…” Why was he nervous? He didn’t need to be nervous. He and Haw- _Clint_ were friends, right? Co-workers, maybe? It wasn’t the sort of mentor thing he had with Mr. Stark, but Clint probably wasn’t mad at him. Right? “So… yeah, food.”

By the time he’d tugged up the bottom half of his mask, the pizza was already congealing. Still, it wasn’t too bad. Cheese and mac’n’cheese made it extra chewy, but not bad. Despite being colder, the second slice was better; more solid, fewer drips, and cheese almost over the crust edge. By the third piece, Peter was really wishing he’d picked up something to drink. Maybe he could run down to Hawkeye’s apartment and get something to drink. There was always coffee, even if it did taste kind of burnt.

He turned to ask, only to realize that the other half of the pizza was untouched. “Um… H-Clint? You should have some pizza before it freezes. It’s the same as last time: mushrooms, mac’n’cheese, pineapple, onions, and anchovies, right?”

The older man sighed, shoulders slumping further as he grabbed a slice. “Aww, pizza… no…”

“Is it not good?”

Hawkeye curled further in on himself, hand raking through his hair as he finally took a pitiful bite out of the end. “Fine. Just… Sergeant loves anchovies.”

Had they picked up somebody else? Peter hadn’t heard about any Sergeant, but there seemed to be people just popping out of the woodwork now. Which, hey, great, it was kind of how he’d gotten the job, but he felt like he was always forgetting somebody, or having to meet someone new. There was another bug guy now, apparently. He’d missed that, too. “Who’s Sergeant?”

“My cat roommate. He's mad at me.” Hawkeye pulled off an anchovy and flicked it over the edge. “‘s why I’m up here.”

Oh, man. This was a problem. Peter had really kind of hoped he’d be able to at least go inside, even for just a little bit. The cold wasn’t that bad, not with the suit on, and he could still get around in a hoodie okay. But, even if he’d skipped on getting a drink when he picked up the pizza, well… It was still a little cold, and he knew he’d start fidgeting soon if he couldn’t go. “So, um… if you’re stuck on the roof – not that that’s bad or anything, the roof can be great, but… Does this mean I can't use your bathroom?”

Clint sighed, dropping his half-eaten slice back into the box, which he shoved under his arm as he headed for the door downstairs “… Come on. You can change in the stairwell and use the john.”

Once the door closed behind him, Peter pulled on a pair of loose jeans over the bottom half of his suit, tugging the mask off and shoving it in the pocket of his hoodie. He hurried to catch up with Hawkeye, already half a flight ahead of him despite his ambling, leisurely pace. “Maybe, ya know, he’s not really mad at you, right? Is he an inside cat? Maybe he's bored. I mean, who wants the lay around in an apartment all day?”

Oh, wait. He was talking to Hawkeye. The same man that kept saying he was going to retire. All the time. Yeah… Good one, Parker. _Smooth_. “Just chilling is great, once in a while, but he's a cat. It’s not like tv or that kind of stuff is interesting. I mean, not for him, probably.”

“Maybe…”

•°•°•°☆

 _Tap_.

What?

 _Tap_.

Was something on his forehead?

 _Tap_.

Why did his chest feel heavy?

_Tap. Tap. Boop._

Clint wiggled his nose, fighting the urge to scrunch his entire face. The effort was wasted as he yawned, then sneezed halfway through, dislodging whatever had been on his nose. Blinking into the late morning sun, he tried to remember why it seemed so long since he'd slept in like this.

_BOOP._

Huh. There was a paw on his nose. Attached to a long fluffy arm. Attached to a large fluffy cat. Currently sitting on his chest. "Hey."

The cat made some sort of sound, mouth open, then looked over to the nightstand. The paw on his nose was removed. Sarge stepped off of him for just long enough to retrieve his aids, then dumped them on his chest. Weird, but at least it wasn't a dead bird or something. He took the hint.

"Mrou."

"Um…"

He shifted, only a little, and the cat leaned - _loomed_ really - over his face, watching him. Clint froze. Sarge had seemed more cat-like, at least for a little while, after the cat carrier incident; ignoring him, hiding under furniture, clawing up a few shirts, and just being a general angry asshole. If not for the fact that he still sometimes woke up to coffee he knew he hadn’t started, Clint would have sworn either he had imagined the whole _weirdly smart not-cat cat_ thing, or that Sergeant hated him. Currently, it looked like the former was no longer something to consider, but that the latter might still be true. He fought not to reflexively wince.

The moment stretched out as the Sergeant stared, brown and blue eyes flicking over his face. If he had been human, Clint would have thought the cat was judging him, scrutinizing by some unknown criteria that he was sure he didn't meet. The stare felt only a few species-specific degrees away from Coulson's _I expected better, Agent_ look. Except this was coming from a cat, and that somehow made it worse.

Sergeant leaned in further, paw now lifted above his face, and Clint prepared for another of the hard kitty taps of vengeance.

He did not, however, prepare for the fluffy face that landed on his forehead, accompanied by a soft paw on his left cheek, a strange wiggle in his ribs and puffing on his brow that meant the big cat was softly purring. Huh. With a not-cat cat, this would have been pretty damn close to a hug, wouldn't it?

He had little time to think about that as Sarge sat back up properly, blinking.

When Clint reached to scratch behind that neglected left ear, the cat didn't pull away, though. Well, this was a change. "… we cool?"

"Mrrp."

"That a yes?"

" _Mrrrpp_."

Clint got the feeling that was not-cat speak for ' _yes, idiot_ ,' or something similar. He scooted to sit up just a bit, but kept up the petting. And - because maybe he had felt just the teensiest bit lonely and ignored, by an _animal_ , no less - kept up the conversation. "So I had a… a friend mention something, and I sort of agree… maybe I oughta find something for you to do instead of just be here all the time.”

Sarge didn't answer, but he did lay down, curling on Clint's chest, still purring.

"Cuz, yeah, you're a smart cat, right?” He worked his fingers down along the cat's neck, carding through thick scruff and smoothing the fur around the collar that really needed replacing. The happy rumbles got just a little softer, so he moved his hand away.  “Probably smart enough to learn some new tricks or something. I remember there was a trained cat back at Carson's - have I told you about that?"

‘ _No, you haven't, but I bet you will._ ’ Why did he make the voice of his cat's imaginary answer so snarky? Probably precedent. Most people sounded like that when he went off rambling, so why not the cat, too? "Yeah, well, I used to be an act in a traveling circus."

Fur shifted under his hand; Sarge had opened one eye to stare at him.

"It's the truth. Ran away to the circus 'n' everything. Would not recommend, but it got me this great spy job, so…" As he rubbed down along the cat’s back, Clint could have sworn Sergeant gave a little huff at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned for this to go WinterHawk-y, but I think that might be happening now. Clearly one-sided, since one of them is a _cat_... at least for now.
> 
> Yes, Clint is sitting on the roof, being a sad sack in his socks, eating cold pizza with Spiderman. 
> 
> And, yes, I do headcanon Spiderman - any of them, really - stopping by other New York superheroes' places to use the bathroom. 
> 
> And that pizza does exist. Or, at least, it _**can exist**_. There is a pizza place in my current city that will put macaroni and cheese on your pizza. I ordered a similar one just to see what would happen a while back (barbecue sauce, mozarella, mac'n'cheese, onions, pineapple, roasted mushrooms, & chicken sausage). They made it, but I would not recommend it.


	5. Chapter 5

Scrolling through fan sites was probably not what her trainers had thought of when they instructed Natasha in counter-intelligence, but it made for some interesting post-op conversations. She had already checked for updates on _Falconeers, WidowsWalk_ , and _IronFans_. Now, she thumbed through the recent pictures on _BirdWatchers_ , scrolling past the numerous shots of Sam and Clint in accidentally hilarious action shots, until she landed on another, less candid, picture. It was of Sam and Redwing, upon whom Sergeant was expertly balanced. Just below it was a shot of Clint, still in full Hawkeye gear, up on some roof, with the cat perched gracefully on his shoulder. “Wow! He cleans up pretty well. Who took these?”

“Peter. He’s the moderator over on BirdWatchers. You ever see a post by _Along_Came_a_Nice_Photographer_ , that’s him.” His fingers fidgeted with another of the silver and pearl frog clasps down her back.

She couldn’t help biting back a sigh at how long this was taking. The deprived little girl she remembered being would have thrilled at this level of opulence, but the grown woman she had become was eager to be out of it.This last solo op had been exhausting _and_ uncomfortable.

Two months playing socialite in the Maldives had sounded better on paper. Now, she was glad for Barton’s help. She’d have cut herself free if she could, but the dress had _technically_ been budgeted as mission necessary, so it had to go back to be inventoried. She contented herself with another picture of Clint and Sergeant, this one with the cat standing on his arm as he drew back an arrow. “How’d you talk him into _this_?”

“Well, Sarge took more coaxing than Peter. The ad revenue is enough to cover a bunch of his bills, and he’s good about keeping the talk on our work. It means _BirdWatchers_ doesn’t end up like _Hubbies4Hawkguy_ or _FalconsFabFotoFans_.”

“Do I want to know?” She wondered whether the person who coined the phrase _killer heels_ could have imagined how weaponized the pair she slipped off actually was. Setting the phone aside, she worked through the necessary codes to decrypt them and keep the two of them from getting gassed.

“Probably not with one of ‘em. _F4_ is a Falcon photo-edit site with a number of… um… strange _members_.”

Natasha never hated English so much as the times when a single thing could have so many words, or when a single word could have _so_ many meanings.

“ _H4H_ isn’t bad, though; mostly a bunch of divorced and single dads who post pictures, try to get my phone number, or compliment my ass, but… Heh… _assbutt_ … I just wanted to get ahead of it before people thought Sergeant was Falcon’s cat…” He finally unhooked the last of the clasps on her god-awful dress, helping her remove the knife tucked along her spine. “Speaking of Sarge; you get anything?”

Unsheathing another knife, this one along her arm, Natasha passed it over for him to tuck away. She followed with a set of thin stilettos, and two of her bangle-garots. Now she could _finally_ get out of this ridiculous silk monstrosity. “I found something Coulson seems to have been sitting on that might help us.”

“Oh?” Her partner chuckled, even as he turned around to offer her the illusion of modesty. 

"Mmm..."She slipped the dress back into its garment bag and began to dig through her closet. It had been too long a mission, and this conversation was going to get very strange, so she needed something comfortable. She pulled on the [fluffy nightmare robe](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0026/4057/6567/products/1500a0116p74-a_4aaff343-742e-40c3-920f-47bc294c4924_1024x1024@2x.jpg?v=1526057076) Clint had given her for Arbor Day last year. It was nothing she could ever imagine being caught dead in by anyone else, but Clint was family. Swathed in plush purple plaid, Natasha slid the file from her briefcase and headed back to the sitting room.

By the time she'd gotten there, Clint had toed off his own shoes, grabbed the remote, and was cycling through channels. “So... which poor intern just lost their security clearance?”

Sitting next to him on the settee, she handed him the folder, smirking into her next word. “Steve.”

“Ste-?” Clint dropped his voice to a conspiratory whisper, leaning in even though they were safely in the bug free apartment maintained for one of her aliases. “You stole Captain America’s security codes to run a background check on my _cat_?”

“Since only he, Phil, and _Tony –_ of all people – had access to these files, I _borrowed_ Steve’s clearance to look into information regarding one of the members of his old unit.” It had taken longer than she had planned because the files had never been digitized. From a security standpoint, it was one of the few things HYDRA did well. Keeping each cell on paper meant it was easy to do a clear-out if it was compromised. It wasn’t unusual for SHEILD to be behind in updating their own files these days – especially considering how much of the operation had been gutted – but twenty-eight months should have been enough time. Somebody had wanted to keep this file out of the wrong hands, but she hated the idea that those were _Clint's_ or _hers._   “Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, born 10th March, 1917.”

“Right…” He shrugged, opening the folder. “…but we _knew_ that.”

And here was what had made this whole personal mission worth it. The chance to catch Clint – unflappable, _what-the-hell_ , world weary Clint – off guard was a rare thing, indeed. “James Barnes, whom SHIELD suspected of being the Winter Soldier.”

“… whu…” Barton’s jaw worked a few times, mouth going open then closed, like a fish drowning on the dock. He flicked his gaze to her for a microsecond, and then he was flying through the pages, eyes widening with each turn. When he reached the end, he picked up the two photos with a sigh. From the angles at which they’d been shot, she knew the resemblance was uncanny. By SHIELD’s best guess, the international assassin version of the bogeyman had started out as a smooth-talking punk from Brooklyn.

“I believe this might explain the good Captain’s extended _vacation_ last year.” Steve _did_ seem the type to go traipsing off on his own in search of a friend; even a supposedly dead one. _Leave no man behind_ and all that. Natasha doubted he could ignore an opportunity to save someone, even if it might be a futile attempt at saving them from themselves.

“I thought that was because he punched Tony through a wall.” He closed the folder, pressing fingers against his temple. That hang-dog _, now what_ expression that meant things were going sideways was all over his face as he asked, “So… So – What? – our working theory is that the Winter Soldier found a three-legged cat, named it _Snowman_ , gave the cat his old dog tags, and taught it to glare and make coffee?”

Natasha could only shrug to that; she honestly had no idea. Clint’s cat might be genetically modified. It might have been trained by HYDRA to infiltrate their team. For all they knew, it might actually _be_ an agent. Although throwing _human_ bodies seemed to be more HYDRA’s style, they played the long game. The cat had been with Hawkeye, as far as they were aware, for over four months. Counting the months he’d been following Clint put it closer to eight. At the moment, there was nothing to do but wait.  “There are more files, but I’ll need time. We should work under the assumption that he was owned by The Soldier, or by Sergeant Barnes, and that he might become lethal at any moment. We need to keep tabs on him. For now, he stays with you, and we don’t let him _anywhere_ near Steve.”

☆°•°•°•

Sarge was sleeping in his new usual spot – inside a hoodie in the middle of the bed – by the time Clint dragged himself in through the open window after his last round of practice. He offered a mumbled ‘ _thank you_ ’ as the cat yawned awake when he slid the glass down and locked it. If he hadn’t been leaving the window open for the cat, he’d have had to pick his own lock. There was no one to call when the super left his keys and found himself locked out of his own building.

He gave Sergeant a gentle pet before pulling a sweatshirt over his uniform. Lucky was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for a quick trip outside.

Said trip turned into a thirty-minute trek when the dog decided he wanted a _real_ walk, but only one way. He really needed to stop feeding the mutt junk food; Clint _could_ carry him up the stairs, but it didn’t mean he wanted to. By the time they got back in, Sarge had drifted off again, and startled awake when Lucky bounded onto the foot of the bed beside him.

“Reeow!” Lucky was too friendly for his own good. Sergeant looked back from the dog to him, seemingly exasperated. The cat dragged his sweatshirt up to the head of the bed, farther from where Lucky was already falling asleep, and sat down to watch him.

Clint pointedly did not look at the cat while he changed out of his gear and into a pair of loose sweats and a faded t-shirt, even though he knew the cat was staring at him. That was normal. Cats stared. Sergeant was just being a normal cat, and he shouldn’t call attention that lie, anyway. The conversation with ‘Tasha a week ago had pretty much cemented his cat-handling strategy of _don’t make it weirder_. And, most of the time, Clint could still almost convince himself that he had a perfectly normal asshole cat.

“Mwee?”

Okay, so maybe normal _-ish_.

“Yeah, it was a pretty good run.” Sarge shifted, resettling himself at the head of the bed as Clint crawled under the blankets. “Tried a few of the new trick arrowheads. Need some work.”

“Rrrrwwwmmm.”

“Huh. Naw, I’ll probably stay in tomorrow.” The one-sided exchanges were something he had just gotten used to, though he worked to keep them as vague and vapid as possible. Sometimes, they were conversations that came naturally. Other times, he felt like he was answering questions he wished someone else was there to ask. Sergeant answered him – at least, it sure _seemed_ like he did – so Clint found himself filling in whatever he supposed the cat was trying to say. He’d never talked like this to Lucky, but then Lucky never seemed interested in talking back. “Might tweak the new ones a little, nock a few and try ‘em on the wall. Nothing I hafta get nice for though. D'you have a good day?”

Sarge looked up from where he was pressing out half the sweatshirt over what had become _his_ pillow. He tilted his head in a lopsided shrug, then turned a few circles. Once he achieved whatever _that_ did, the cat laid down, single arm over his nose.

“Oh. Cool then.” Clint flipped off the switch, leaving the room dark as he smashed his face into his pillow.

“Myannn.” A light paw swipe brushed the side of his face, just above his ear. He turned to face the other side of the bed, a pair of mirror-bright eyes staring back in the darkness. Sarge pawed at his ear, again.

Oh, right. Leave it to the cat to remind him about his BTEs. He snatched them out and threw them on to the nightstand. Rolling back over, Clint tried to settle in for the morning. “Night, Sergeant.”

He couldn’t hear the cat's answer, but that was fine; by now, Clint could feel the steady purring as Sarge curled up against his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Arbor Day? Why not. Knowing Clint, he found a bathrobe, through it would make a good gift, and just happened to give it to Natasha at the end of April. Maybe she lost a bet, so she had to accept something he'd picked out. Maybe it's a little piece of her best friend she can wrap around herself on bad nights. Who's to say.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, I am assuming Tony and Steve learned of their issues with and connections to the Winter Soldier prior to Bucky tracking down Clint. There may be a bit more about this in a later chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a very short chapter. It was originally combined with what is now chapter seven, but chapter seven just ran away with itself, so I felt I had to break them up, somehow. I'll try to avoid doing this, again, in the future.

“Dog sweaters… why?” How many aisles of clothes did a pet store need, really? He had thought coming to a little boutique like this would be better than one of the bigger stores. He sometimes came to _Cat’s Pyjamas_ to get Lucky a treat, but he hadn’t realized they might actually sell _cat’s pyjamas_! This place seemed to go on forever. Not that he wasn’t finding some good things, though. Clint wondered if he was turning into one of _those_ kinds of people, even if the pet he was spoiling might turn out to be a HYDRA trained assassin.

No, no that was why he was doing this. He had already found the perfect collar to slip a tracker into, one that didn’t put out any frequencies a cat could hear, and that would let him know where Sarge went when he wandered. But, if the cat was a spy – and, shit, what even _was_ his life that he had to worry about that being _possible_ – it would look less suspicious if the collar was part of a full wardrobe update. Right? Right. Besides, now he had an excuse to get Lucky and Sergeant matching hoodies. Kate had gotten Lucky a coat, and he was pretty chill about wearing it. Clint just had to hope Sarge would be as accommodating. They could all be hood dudes together… unless Sarge went berserk because of the whole murderous spy cat thing.

He was so wrapped up in deciding on sweaters for his totally _normal_ cat that he didn’t notice the young man sidle up next to him. “Need any help shopping for your dog sir?”

“What? Oh, uh, no...” Clint tossed a few more of the hoodies into his handbasket, shaking his head. Lucky wasn’t that picky; it would have been easy. “They’re for my cat.”

“Oh.” The young man nodded, eyes a little wide, mouth quirking up in a half grin.

“I… I know most people don’t do that, but… He’s, um... he’s a wei– a _special_ cat. Big, too, so uh…” He shrugged back to the display, hoping that the... attendant might leave him to muddle through it.

“He'd have to be something, for you to spoil him like this.” Judging by the fact that he was hanging up clothes further down the wall, he was definitely an employee. “You know, you can bring him in some time, if he’s on a leash. Same as a dog.”

“Really?” That would work out even better than using just the tracker. He could probably trust Sergeant to wait for him outside of a few places, but he’d been able to take Lucky pretty much everywhere in the city. Well, except the subway, but given their Amtrak experience, that was probably a no-go anyway. He might have to deal with some weird looks, but it could be worth it.

“Yup. Leash law applies everywhere. Harnesses are around the corner.”

“Thank-” He looked to his right, but the clerk was already gone, swallowed up in row upon row of animal attire. “-you.”

•°☆

By the time he finished, Clint had picked out a harness, a new leash, eight hoodies, two sweaters, and a purple t-shirt that read _Original Asshole_ for Sergeant, along with another target scratcher board. Lucky got two hoodies and a pizza shaped squeaker. He’d either love that, or Clint would be dealing with the face of ultimate betrayal for a week.

He grabbed a few cans of dog food – on the off chance that Lucky would eat something _marginally_ good for him – and more wet food. Plus two bags of litter, although he was pretty sure Sarge had never actually shat in the box. Knowing his luck, the cat was smart enough to use the toilet or something. As he stepped out into the slushy hell outside, he was glad not to have brought Sarge this time, at least. The subway beat the hell out of the sidewalk.

☆°•°•°•

It had taken some vigorous maneuvering – was it still considered that if he didn’t actually have hands? – but Bucky had worked open the transom window over the hallway door. At least, that was what he preferred to call the hour he spent flinging himself at and then scrabbling to press open the little pane of glass. It had taken another ten minutes to squeeze himself through, being especially quiet so as not to get caught.

Clint had said he was going shopping, and that meant the human would hauling back as much as he could carry in a single trip. Bucky had learned that Clint did not like to shop. If he hadn’t been so rightfully paranoid about people knowing where he lived, Bucky was sure he’d have had everything delivered. The human was functionally a hermit when he wasn’t on missions. Not that Bucky minded; _he_ certainly didn’t have anywhere to be. Aside, of course, from the one place Clint had yet to take him, but it was bound to happen.

For today, though, he had spent most of his time slinking through the building, checking in on who else shared the space with his human. _Where had that come from_? Clint was his… roommate. That sounded better. This was Clint, who brought him food, and toys, and didn’t know he was still too embarrassed to use the litter box when the dog was watching. Roommate was a decent enough word for the lopsided relationship they had. Or, at least, for what Clint _knew_ of it, anyway. Bucky certainly thought of himself as more than a pet. But, then, again, here he was, waiting at the door for Barton to come back. Huh.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this needs a warning, but just in case. Bucky has a major panic episode in this chapter. It's based off of my own experiences with panic, and seeing things from the other side with a friend who experiences similar issues. I have no idea if this is _actually_ the kind of reaction someone with Bucky's background would have. This was an attempt to get at the racing nonsense thoughts I have known/seen; I'm not a professional researcher or therapist.

Bucky had been ready for a greeting from Clint when the man came in the door downstairs.  He had been focused so much on the doorway that he hadn’t been ready for anyone _except_ Clint to come through it.

“You got yourself a cat, huh?”

Which meant he had not been ready to be clutched by unfamiliar hands, plucked upwards to come face to face with an overload of piercings and pink hair. He had not been ready to not be able to touch the ground. And since he wasn’t touching the ground, he _was_ in the air. And since he had no chute, that meant he was falling. He was falling!

Human brain in a spiral, _cat brain_ took over, and Bucky flailed. “Fffreoow!”

“Aimee... Sarge isn’t exactly a people cat, so...”

“Ffft! Ffffft!” He was still hissing and squirming when the she set him down. Bucky ran behind Clint, twirling around his leg, safe between the wall and his denim-clad shield. That was much better, with all three feet on the ground. Solid under his paws. Feet. Solid and real, safe where no one could reach him, where nobody could hold him and let him drop. Let him fall.

Bucky took a deep breath and sneezed.

After another moment – feeling marginally calmer – he craned his neck, peeking around Clint and blinking up at this apparent neighbour. His first impression hadn’t been far off, even filtered through the fear. Her short cut hair was bright pink, and he stopped counting her piercings once he got past ten. Did they get cold in the winter? He remembered his arm getting cold at the hand sometimes, especially when he had to sit and wait for a target. He’d been good at waiting, Before. But before Before, he remembered getting ansty, fidgeting in the dead calm after a successful mission.

 _Now_ felt a lot like _then_. He was a little bit figety, still on edge, and _cat brain_ was a little bit bored. Sitting on his haunches and batting at the plastic sacks Clint held was satisfying enough for both of them.

“Aww... look at him. He’s not so bad when he’s not a hissing demon ball.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw the young lady – _Aimee_ – shift her own messenger bag and nod toward Clint. “Need help getting that up?”

“Naw, we’re good.” Clint hefted his bags, nodding to where Bucky suddenly felt too many eyes on him. “Right, Sarge?”

Was he good? No. But he wasn’t falling. That was a little bit good. Bucky pawed the man’s pant leg with a soft, “Mrrp.”

Aimee squealed, smiling down at him, “So cute! See ya, Clint,” before turning on her heel and heading for the other stairwell.

Bucky growled after her, torn by his feelings on that word. On one hand – the irony of that being the only way he could count at the moment wasn’t lost on him – but on one hand, having someone call him cute wasn’t necessarily a _bad_ thing. He might have preferred _handsome_ , or, at the very least, _sharp_ , but _cute_ wasn’t a bad compliment. On the same hand, he wasn’t himself, and cute only reminded him that he looked non-threatening.

If he wasn’t a threat, he was a target in this world. Targets were eliminated. That was why he stayed low, out of sight, and did his job efficiently. _Head down, kid, and you might live to get home._ Bucky leaned in against Clint’s leg, checking the exit door behind him, then darted back up the stairs. He needed to get back to the apartment. There was a just too much... _too_ _much_ being down here in the open.

“Somebody’s in a hurry.”

Of course. Only an idiot would be caught out by a civilian, and he couldn’t be compromised. He needed to get back. Reassesses and... reset. Yes. He had to abort the mission, but he could be reset. He was almost to his objective, had just reached the third-floor landing, as his front leg got a little wobbly.

He could hear someone behind him. “Sarge? You need a hand?”

No. Assistance was unnecessary. He always worked alone. They woke him up, gave him his objective, reset him, put him under; he always worked alone. Always alone. Always... No... No, that wasn’t right. He paused on the step, panting. He remembered a team. Remembered loud voices, snow, and... Stevie. Yeah, Stevie had been there. That had been hard walking then. Hard climbing, too. But that was back before the train, wasn’t it? He remembered that, and Stevie... Stevie, and holding on, and he’d dropped. He’d fallen!

Bucky leaned more heavily onto the step, slipping a little and bracing against the wall. Why was he shaking? He wasn’t cold, not like before. They reset him to forget, but he always remembered the cold. He never shook in the cold. Couldn’t shake; couldn’t move. He needed to move. Someone was behind him. Someone was coming!

“Oh, hey, no... I... I’ll getcha. Hang on.”

There was a rustle of plastic, a shifting noise, and a few muttered curses, and then he was in the air, again, and he was falling! He was falling and freezing, screaming and dying all over until his claws sank into fabric. He clung on, buttressed by a strong arm against his back as he was jostled away.

•°☆

He lost time save for a few moments – later recalling only the slam of the door and the dog bounding out – before he came back to himself, to the light hand brushing over the top of his head, the susurrus nonsense echoing intermittently around him, the pleasant burnt scent in the air.

“You’re safe, buddy…”

“Nothin's gonna hurt you here, Sarge…”

“Just me and the coffee…”

“I gotcha…”

The nonsense was Clint. The scent was coffee. He was with Clint. He wasn’t falling, and he wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t cold, and it was okay. He was _okay_. He was... Was he Sarge? He was... Barnes? He was Barnes. Sergeant Barnes.

He pressed his face further into the into the warm fabric beneath it, reaching for the coffee he could smell, but his hand was wrong. His body was _wrong,_ and his best attempt at a yell came out as a piteous “ _Mreeeng_ ” sort of sound.

The hand on his head stilled. “Sergeant? You back with us, kitty?”

Kitty? Cat. He was a cat, and his hand was a paw, and this was Clint’s lap. _Fuck!_

 Bucky curled up until he could wrap his tail over his head, trying to hide. Why did this have to happen now, of all times? Why’d he have to fall apart and embarrass himself in front of Clint like this? And why the fuck did he even care? Clint thought he was a cat, anyway. He whined softly. This was pathetic.

The hand resting on his back lifted, replaced by its opposite. Bucky could hear a soft slurping behind him, then the tell-tale _tippy-tip-tap_ of fingers on a touch screen. Still, the hand rubbed little soothing circles in his fur. This man was far too good for him. He uncurled enough to nose into Clint’s petting. “Nyrrng.”

“Oh!” The man set his phone aside, bringing his other hand around to lightly rub along his back. “Heeey… Had me worried for a while. I looked up cat seizures, but… Well…”

There was something disconcerting in the way Clint shrugged, and Bucky filed it away for later. Right now, he was just so tired. He wanted to sleep – it was safe and warm here – but he was more than afraid to close his eyes right now. He butted his head at the bottom of the archer’s shirt, hoping to nose his way into the pullover the man wore.

“Aww… Kitty, no… Hang on.” Clint shifted around him, and Bucky felt very controlled for not sinking claws into the fabric of his jeans to hold on. There was a crinkling noise, sounds of something being pulled from a plastic bag over the side of the bed. “No point in asking you to close your eyes, huh?”

“Mrrp.” He was never going to close his eyes, again, no.

Clint lifted up a lump of fabric, setting it on the bed for him to see. “I got you your own. Now we’ll match. See, it’s a-”

It was… It was a cat-sized hoodie, complete with a little pocket and everything, grey and purple and soft, though much less worn that the ones Clint usually wore.

Speaking of, he was still talking. “- at the store said these might help with anxiety, and since you have your little… uh, your _moments_ … Anyway, maybe when you’re feeling better, yeah? Plus, it’ll keep the snow off your fur when we go out.”

Far too good for him. Bucky might have cried, if he could. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him a gift. Honestly, _couldn’t_. Human emotion and cat brain resulted in him pawing the shirt before butting his head into Barton’s stomach, nuzzling happily. He pulled back and shoved his head at the bottom of the shirt, vainly trying to put it on himself.

“Hold on. Jeez, okay, okay…” Steady hands pulled and pushed at Bucky’s head and paw, until the fabric was scrunching around his torso. Gently, he felt the hood tucked around his ears, so that the folded ends just did poke through the holes along the top. Clint rubbed between his ears, fingers slipped under the hood to stroke through Bucky’s fur. “There we go.”

Oh… Oh, that was nice… maybe. Maybe he could close his eyes. For just a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this and chapter 6 are the combined length of 1.5 normal chapters. I'm going to be taking a break from this for a while to actually _work on my dissertation_ (shout out to the tags), so it will be a few days before the next update. Expect another chapter hopefully some time next week. They tend to come quickly, so I will do my best to keep pace with this.  
> Ta for now!


	8. Chapter 8

Despite his reputation for running his mouth, Clint Barton had never _really_ bothered Bruce while he was working. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the man's oddly respectful friendship with the Other Guy, or if a lot of Clint’s gabbing was to purposely be an annoyance to Tony. That made the most sense. He and Natasha seemed to have a running game of pissing the man off. Of course, Hawkeye was rarely ever in _his_ lab at all, unless it was team related or he needed something, so Bruce was only slightly surprised, mostly by the content of the question that came just as he was ready to break for lunch.

“Bruce, d’you know anything about seizures in animals?”

“Clint… I… you know I’m not that kind of doctor, right?” He waited for the laptop to shut down, shuffling his notes into a stack. Papers, laptop, and a few odd pens were in his bag, and he was already headed for the door before he continued. “I feel like we’ve had this discussion before. A lot. Like a lot a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The taller man trailed behind him into the elevator, head tilted in an embarrased shrug. “I’m sorry, it’s just. You and Tony are the smartest guys I know, so I thought I’d ask.”

“Uh-huh.” Aside from a few other codename classified researchers he’d met over the years – Silvig was one of them – he and Tony were some of the smartest people Bruce could think of as well.Not that he’d complain. That was pretty much the only reason they kept him around when the they didn’t need something broken.

Hakweye picked back up as they stepped onto the floor housing Bruce’s quarters. “I mean, there’s a fifty-fifty shot one of you might know, and you’re not an asshole.”

“Thank you. I think.” Bruce scanned in his suite of rooms, motioning for his impromptu guest to go ahead of him. He bustled Clint into the private kitchen he’d insisted on when he agreed to be a _sometimes_ resident at the tower. Not that anything was ever really private in a building full of cameras linked back to a _probably_ sentient AI. But the space meant he could cook and eat in private without Steve’s awfull table manners, Thor or Stephen’s surprise _visits_ , or Tony accidentally setting himself on fire. “To answer your question; not much more than I know about seizures in humans. Is something wrong with your cat?”

“… how did you know I got a cat?” Barton settled for straddling one of the dinette chairs,  chin propped up in his hands. “You barely check your email.”

“It’s been, what, almost six months? I check up on things, sometimes.” He put the kettle on to boil, rummaging through his pantry for the peppercorn-rosehip tisane he let himself enjoy on good days. Which, considering he was being not only social, but also _helpful_ , would definitely include today. “If you think your cat is having seizures, though, you should take it to a vet. You know; an _animal_ doctor… Which I am not.”

“I think he’s just having nightmares, but I’ll check into that.”

“Nightmares? Sure, why not, he can join the club.” Maybe that was the other reason he could handle Hawkeye so well; they had a lot in common. Not that the whole team – along with huge chunks of SHEILD and most of the population in the city – weren’t all honorary members of the screaming-nightmare-havers club. That was a given. But he and Clint were also part of the not-always-in-control-of-my-mind squad, and joint co-founders with Tony of the I-have-issues-with-my-father team. So, sure, why not add a cat to the mix? They could use a mascot.

The squealing kettle knocked him out of his reverie. He puttered around, making tea, adding a sprinkle of stevia to his own. Bruce passed off the mug to Clint before he settled in the other chair. “Are his making yours worse?”

Clint shrugged mid-slurp, swallowing before he muttered. “Thought you weren’t that kind of doctor.”

He returned the gesture, taking the time to lean back in his chair before he quipped back, “Thought I wasn’t an asshole, either.”

“Touché.” Clint grinned, chugging the rest of his tea in a way that made Bruce’s face fall – this was a special occasion – and spun the mug on his finger. He let it wobble, once, twice, almost dropping it before he caught it and set it down. None too gently, either, to Bruce’s chagrin. “Haven’t had any issues recently. Try not to think about it, avoid blue lights before bed, that sort of thing. Cat helps, actually. He’s a cuddler… well, he is with _me_. Kind of scratchy shit-show, otherwise. Whizzed on my shirts for a while, but he seems to be over that.”

“Mmm…” He could understand the appeal of companion animals; especially given his own hang-ups about spending time with people. The thought of something that was reliant on him, though? That was more than enough to make Bruce nervous. “Sounds charming. You know, you could get the cuddly asshole part if you got a few drinks in Tony, and he won’t pee on your shirts, probably.”

“Eww. No. We’re not gonna stay friends if you’re going to put my cat in the same category as after-party-Tony.” Hawkeye wrinkled his nose, head shaking brusquely. “Besides, I can’t get rid of Sarge. He looks way too adorable in his new hoodie.”

Clint had already pulled out his phone and handed it over. The cat looked mildly unhappy in the lavender sweater. The hood was flipped up, so that its eyes were mostly in shadow, and it looked vaguely menacing, dead-on staring at the camera. At Barton’s nodding, Bruce slid through a few more shots, sighing. “You won’t even buy yourself new shoes, and you bought your cat hoodie?

“I bought my cat a _wardrobe_.” Sticking out his tongue, Clint snatched his phone back. His face grew solemn as he looked back at the pictures. “Bruce?”

“Hmm?”

“Know anybody doing research in mind-control?”

☆°•°•°•

Bucky scratched against his neck with his back leg, pulling out the collar to give it a once over. Those certainly _looked_ like his original tags, and he had watched his human put them on his new collar, but some part of him still needed to check. He thought he would have spotted any sleight of hand, but a guy couldn’t be too careful. Satisfied, he tipped his head forward, dropping the hood back down. He liked that part of this whole clothes thing the best.

It wasn’t too bad of a hoodie, either. Clint had tossed it onto the bed before he got them dressed, so he’d had a chance to read it. _Audubon Society: Official Bird Watcher_ was printed across the back, along with a cartoon cat that had a few feathers poking from its mouth. Maybe it wasn’t his first pick of colour – he’d never been a huge fan of purple, though it was growing on him – but it was okay.

He sat still as his new leash was attached and waited patiently for Clint to lock up. “Okay, ready to try this for real?”

He would have preferred riding on Clint’s shoulders, to be honest. As useful as it could be in going unnoticed, being so low to the ground was a hazard in a place this busy. And, of course, the sight lines were terrible when your eyes weren’t even two feet of the ground. Bucky resolved to climb up onto Clint if necessary. “Mrrp.”

His time on the sidewalk had lasted all of ten minutes before he was scrabbling to get up Clint’s pant leg, away from the gum, and the garbage, and the feet; holy shit, people needed to look where they were walking! He didn’t _want_ to be down here. He wanted to be close to… He wanted to be close. Bucky tried to assure himself it was only because he preferred better sight lines than what he could get on the ground.

Barton had taken it in stride, leaving the leash on, but letting him ride draped across strong shoulders. They had stopped for coffee and a bagel, and – even with Clint hunched under the overhang to avoid flurries – the view from up here was much better. Plus, it allowed him to actually hear Clint, although the man was on the phone at the moment. Bucky wanted very much to paw at the video feed. He settled for shoving his face in front of Clint’s and meowing. The man on the other end looked unimpressed.

_“You got a cat? Had money on it being Sam’s.”_

“Cat got me, Stark.” Clint pushed his face out of the way, giving one ear a gentle flick. “Don’t worry; he’s staying in the apartment."

_“He’d better. So about that upgrade to the suit…”_

_Stark?_ He knew he should know him. _Stark…_ Why was that name so familiar to him? Bucky vaguely remembered a _Howard_ _Stark_ from Strat Science, but he’d be dead by now- _‘С – СТАРК –_ _STARK, Howard Anthony Walter. Жена: Maria. Сын: Anthony Edward.’_

Oh. He had…! He had liked Howard. He hadn’t wanted to… But that… that wasn’t something he could address right now. He couldn’t even keep a list of every target that he’d been assigned. He couldn’t remember them all, and they had kept him busy in the cold. _Tools must be kept sharp_.

Stark wasn’t exactly a common name, at least he didn’t think it was, but there had to be more than one of them out there. Surely, this guy was just some friend of Clint’s with a similar name and a passing resemblance. Who was altering a suit, which, seemed strange for Clint to talk about; he’d lived with the man for half a year, and the only suit he’d seen his roommate in was of the birthday variety.

Clint coughed into his fist, reaching back to rub at Bucky’s ears, again. “Uh, Tony, I’m in public, so… ixn-e on the vengersa-e?”

Tony. Tony Stark. His human was talking with Tony Stark. Tony – _I’m IronMan –_ Stark. An ** _T_** h ** _ONY_** Stark, orphaned, _‘1991 Декабрь 16_.’  

_“Yeah, sure, but does Cap know you got a cat?”_

“Tony.”

_“I bet Widow knows. Hey, Bruce, did you know our birdbrain has a-”_

_“_ Tony!” Clint was tensing beneath his paws, hand yanking the phone away, thumb tapping at the buttons. His voice was terse as he ground out. “Not. Now. Got it? We’re done.”

The voice was quieter when it replied. “ _Yeah… Sure. We’ll talk later. I, uh… Just keep him out of the tower.”_

“Bye, Tony.” The man slammed his thumb down, shoving the phone back into his pocket with a muttered _‘shit!’_ He looked sideways at Bucky, mouth pulled into a thin line. Bucky wondered if he looked as confused as he felt at the moment. It was a lot to process, perched on top of an angry archer who was chugging down his coffee like it was air.

He had killed Howard Stark. He had _killed_ Howard. He hadn’t even known – No; he’d known, but not really _remembered_. Had he… had he killed Peggy? _Margaret Carter will be the purview of the Red Room from this point forward._ No… different team. Failed op; once just after the war, once in the late sixties. But Tony… He remembered Anthony Edward from the files.  He remembered IronMan from the footage they’d made him review, from little snippets of news in between cartoons on their the television. This was going to complicate things. He huffed into the side of Clint’s face, shifting to lean in and snuffle at his cheek. “Nyrrrng…”

“Aww… Don’t worry, Sarge. I’m not mad at you.”

That was hardly Bucky’s concern at the moment, but the gentle rubbing under his chin helped. As did Clint finally relaxing and leaning up off the wall. “Gonna put you down for a bit, okay?”

Gentle hands lowered him to the sidewalk, releasing him only when all three legs were on the pavement. Some might have just bowled him to the ground. Which, yes, he’d be fine; he was a cat, after all. Still, he was glad he had a good human.

“Where to, Sergeant?”

He butted his head into Barton’s sweatpants. “Mrween?”

“Yeah, I think we _could_ use a slice.” Clint nodded, and they started off down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bowling a cat reference is taken from a [Pete Holmes comedy sketch about the difference between setting down cats and setting down dogs.](http://www.cc.com/video-clips/au8b48/dropped-a-dog-pt--1)


	9. Chapter 9

 …

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Please give Falcon his cat back._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _No way!_ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Clint. Come on. I don’t know what kind of thing you’re pulling._ ]  
[ _Stop it. Give Sam his cat back._ ]

…

☆°•

He closed his sketchbook, dragging a hand down his face. Steve was beyond the point of trying to guess at Hawkeye’s reasoning. This was likely another of his ‘ _it seemed funny at the time’_ ideas. Maybe it had been? Life had been too hectic recently: he hadn’t been able to even make that charity event, let alone ask Sam when he’d gotten the cat, before Clint had apparently claimed it and brought it back to New York with him.

From what he could tell – at least according to the internet – there was some sort of photography contest between the two of them involving getting Sam’s poor cat to be ridiculous on camera. Which, yes, maybe it had been funny, but this had been going on for long enough that Hill had asked whether they wanted the cat to officially be sanctioned as a member of the team.

☆°•

…

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _Not giving up the cat Cap._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _You cat-napped him TWO MONTHS AGO!_ ]  
[( _I meant that to be yelling. I am very disappointed)_ ]  
[ _I've seen the pictures. We do not need a team cat._ ]  
[ _It’s a pretty cat, but you should give it back to Sam._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _Not his cat._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _I thought Liho was black and tiny?_ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _That’s right_.]  
[ _Not Nat’s cat either._ ]  
[ _My cat stays with me._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _That’s your cat?_ ]  
[ _You’re taking care of a cat?!_ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _I don’t think I like what you’re implying Steve._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Nothing implied._ ]  
[ _When did you get a fucking cat?_ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _LANGUAGE!_ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _We’re not on comms. No agent will care if I type “fuck,” Clint._ ]  
[ _How are you taking care of a cat?_ ]  
[ _You can barely look after yourself._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _I LITERALLY have a dog Rogers._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Your dog eats out of the garbage._ ]  
[ _I’ve seen it._ ]  
[ _Also, you don’t have full custody of Lucky_.]  
[ _Maybe a cat is better. They’re resilient_.]  
[ _What’s its name?_ ]

…

☆°•

“Still life, or can I take that?” Bruce had slipped into the shared kitchen during his texting. At his nod, the doctor picked up two mugs from the attempted artful stack, drifting quietly around the island to the sink.

Steve trailed behind him, putting the rest of the mugs away. Now that Bruce was up, it was only a matter of time before the quiet of the morning would be long gone. “Did you know that Hawkeye got a cat?”

“Mm. Said he wanted to keep it quiet.”

“You don't think it's a little odd?” He bypassed the coffee and tea for orange juice; extra calories were something he still had to work on.

Bruce met him with a sidelong glance once the refrigerator door closed. “What, that Clint has secrets? We’re a team-” he mimed a single set of air quotes as above his mug, “-made up almost entirely of spies and people with major issues yielding to authority, so, no, not really. I mean, I disappear for months and never tell you where I'm going, and who knows what Tony’s keeping in the back room.”

“A man has to have his secrets, Brucie!” Stark caught the second cup at Bruce’s toss, squeezing between them both to get at the coffee.

“Hm.” Banner shuffled back around to the breakfast table, perpetually world weary gaze refocusing on Steve. “And do we even want to get _started_ on Natasha? So, no, I don't think our team archer’s semi-secret cat is anything unusual.”

“And, hey, Steve-o? To be fair, he didn't actually _tell_ me.” Tony hooked both hands around his arm, pushing him back toward the table. He was still talking as he made his way to the walk in dry cupboard. “Social media mentions of _Avenger Cat_ were on the uptick, which didn't make very much sense, so I looked into it. Thought it was Sam’s.”

“Same.” Steve took the hint and settled back at the table, though he had to snatch his sketchbook into his lap. Nobody ever looked where they put their drinks in this place! Steve tried to focus on getting his pencil and chalks safely away before anything risked breaking them. “Wonder why he’s never brought it by.”

From somewhere in the depths of the pantry, Tony’s voice echoed back. “Avenger’s Tower Rule 86-B: No pets in the tower!”

His phone buzzed next to his elbow.

☆°•

…

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _You think I need a cat because they’re harder to fuck up?_ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _I never SAID that_.]  
[  ( ᴖ ᴗ ᴖ)  ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _Jackass. We’re not 4th best friends anymore_.]  
[ _I call him Sarge._ ]  
[ _His full name is Sergeant Buckitty Scribbles the_ _Winter Kitten._ ]  
[ _HE is my new 4th best friend._ ]  
[ _You can share 5th place with JARVIS now._ ]

…

…

…

…

…

…

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Weird name for a cat._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _In my line of work? He’s only named after freaking legends!_ ]  
[ _Even if one of them is a ghost story._ ( ᴖ o ᴖ) ]  
[ _Never mind. Guess it’s a sniper assassin thing._ ]  
[ _Upstanding guys like you wouldn’t get it Cap._ ]

…

☆°•

Were it not for the reinforcement on his StarkPhone, he probably would have put his thumb through the screen. He could hear the glass straining in his grip. Clint had to have known about how close he and Bucky had been. Why would he ever think-? What would make him _do_ that?! The whole team had read each other’s files…!

But there was truth in that comment about legends. An entire mythos had grown up around the commandos while he’d been under. He’d seen the _J. B. Barnes_ _Memorial Wall_ back at the original S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, showcasing snipers the organization had lost over the years. The yearly charity shoot was named after him, too. Of course, Clint was going to know who Bucky was!

As for the Winter Soldier bit, well... If _anyone_ could admire a guy for a record of assassinations, even if they were flawlessly executed, it would be Hawkeye. He and Black Widow dealt in death more often than the rest of the team – even _he_ didn’t get briefings on everywhere SHIELD still sent them – and they’d been at it longer than any of them.

Natasha kept a lid on it, at least where anyone could see, but Clint…? There were times when the twist all of that had put on him was more evident. Unless Clint was trying to fuck with him, this had to have been serendipitous happenstance. And, while Barton could let a joke go too far, he wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t purposeful. It _couldn't_ be. No one knew except Tony.

He startled when Bruce nudged at his elbow, face hovering between perturbed and concerned. “Ya know, it's not like you don’t have secrets of your own? Quite a few, recently.”

“Not…” He wasn’t trying to hide things from his team; hated having to even consider it. The fact that the only other person he _could_ share it with could turn around and wield that secret like a dagger didn’t help the situation. Steve thought he’d been hiding it better than this. If Bruce had noticed when he was so rarely here, apparently Steve was worse at keeping secrets than he’d thought. “You’re right, but it’s not on purpose. It's just... classified.”

“You okay?”

Oh, he did not need Dr. Bruce, please don’t add to my stress today, Banner worrying over him. He reached for his glass with a nod. “Yeah, just... memories, right?”

“Ah... yeah,” Tony’s smile was tight as he emerged with more of that disgusting smoothie mix under one arm, a loaf of bread in the other. “ _Amazing_ the things you remember _exactly_ when you don't want to, right Steve-o?” He was revving the blender before Steve could answer.

“I…” Banner’s head was on a swivel; gaze flicking between his face and the tense lines of Tony’s back. “I feel like I'm missing something.”

“Don't worry, Dr. Banner. Just being maudlin.”

“Mm. Well, _that_ I understand.” Steve was forever grateful that there was one tactful person in this place. Bruce laid a hand on his shoulder, but it didn’t feel invasive. “If you need anything…?”

“Yeah. I’ll… I’ll let you know. Thanks.” He scooped his supplies up and grabbed his phone, nodding to Tony’s back. Neither of them had signed up to watch him mourn over juice and coffee.

He ought to be grateful, he knew that. The team never failed to be supportive – even if they weren’t aware what they were offering support for – and he hadn’t had to drag anyone but Stark through all of this bullshit. That would be its own can of worms. It still sat in the glare-filled silence that settled between them if the others were out, but it was more a dull mistrust than an outright hostility. Tony had been more upset at someone keeping secrets from him than what the secrets were.

Now, at least… at least he'd finally had something to memorialize for himself, some piece of Bucky to lay to rest. Even if they were only ashes of little pieces those bastards had carved off of him. The Wakandan royal family had been remarkably understanding once he’d returned the arm, and Steve hadn’t been completely alone that evening. Bucky… Bucky would have liked the cliffside; strong handholds and good sightlines. He’d finally been able to tell Peggy they'd found him. She would have liked that. And, maybe this whole thing with Clint…

… maybe it wasn’t so bad. It was jarring, and unorthodox. Steve felt discomfited about the whole series of events, but that was par for the course with Clint. Maybe this whole cat-name thing was an opportunity. Someone on his new team was – in his own mildly fucked up way – honouring a member of Steve’s first team. There _were_ good memories there, even if they were still limned in pain. If Hawkeye was going to memorialize Bucky with a cat, maybe he might want to share a few drinks, hear it from someone who’d actually been there?

☆°•

…

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Bring him by?_ ]  
[ _JARVIS likes me. We can probably sneak him past security_.]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _Tony said no cats. Loudly over and over._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Tony can fuck off_.]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _Yup_ ]  
[ _Figured you for a dog kinda guy_ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Couldn’t ever afford one._ ]  
[ _Allergies meant no pets in the house, either._ ]  
[ _I used to feed the stray cats. Snuck them up to the apartment._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _Thought you had a roommate?_ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _Bucky was a total pushover for animals._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _That must have been why he put up with your shit._ ]

…

…

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _You would have liked him._ ]  
[ _He was a punk, and he was full of shit._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _I dunno. I get enough of that already._ ]  
[ _Half of it from the cat, recently._ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _You would have come around._ ]  
[ _Bucky could charm the pants off of anything._ ]

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _What are implying with that?_ ]

 ** _Steven G._**  
[ _I don’t live with a trash-eating dog._ ]  
[ _Or have a three-legged cat as my 4th best friend._ ]

…

…

 ** _HawkGuy_**  
[ _You’re sassy for an old guy_.]  
[ _You HAVE enough friends to have a 4th best?_ ]

…

☆°•

He set the phone down, fighting the ingrained response to lash out at the hurt. Steve didn’t really rank his friends, let alone his best. He’d never had that many, but...

He’d had one.


	10. Chapter 10

He’d never felt completely at ease staying overnight in the tower, but he had to give credit where it was due: Even this high up, Stark had finagled a plumbing set-up that maintained kick-ass water pressure. Combine that with a stall big enough to fill half his kitchen, and water faucets that were actually plumbed correctly to their labels, and Clint could honestly say visiting the tower was worth it for the bathing experience alone. Getting to enjoy all of that _after_ three hours on the best target range he’d experienced, and it was just about the perfect end to the day.

Until it wasn’t.

The curtain was yanked open behind him, concurrent with the onslaught of what he assumed would be yelling if he could actually hear more than a muffled tone. Instinct sent him into a crouch, one leg out to sweep the intruder’s leg as the soap went flying. Natasha – who _else_ would it be – caught the still damp bar, throwing it right back into his face. Which left him stunned, now down one eye from the soap stinging through it, looking up from the shower floor to see his partner turn off the water, all while trying to follow along with a flurry of ranting. Which would have been hard enough to make out, even if it had been in English.

“Can’t see your mouth, Nat. Ты говоришь по-русски! Slow down!”

He could see her muttering something incomprehensible. She rounded on him, snapping his head with the bath-towel. “Идиот!”

Okay, that was pretty universal, actually. She tossed him the towel, and, once his face was dry, his aids. He stayed on the floor as the sound cut back in.

“I asked you to do _one_ thing. Одна!” Her face scrunched for a moment at the lapse.  “One thing, Clint...  One. Thing.”

“He’s monitored. The whole _building_ is monitored, and I’ve made improvements since before. I closed the windows, Nat, and he’s fine.”

 Her words were hushed, sharp-edged, fingers digging against the inside of her elbows. “SHIELD was already following those leads – leads that only Captain American and Iron Man are supposed to know anything about – and now a member of the _Avengers_ has told _Captain America_ that his cat is named _‘Sergeant Buckitty the Winter Kitten._ ’ How is that circumspect?”

“It’s not, but… But – fuck it – I’m sick of not knowing anything, ‘Tasha!” This was not the first time they’d had words while he was naked in the shower, but this was one time where Clint knew he didn’t deserve to have her treating him like a total fuck-up. “And everyone knows I don’t exactly _do_ subtle if I don’t have to!"

He pulled himself up, tearing part of the curtain as he stood. The towel went around his waist, more out of habit than modesty. Clint leaned back against the cooling tile, arms crossed over his chest, giving him at least the feeling of a barrier between himself and Romanov. He was too damn tired for this right now. “‘Tasha… you are literally following a _paper_ trail. I thought this might set them scrambling. Let them think I was mocking their progress. Shake something loose, and make your job easier in the chaos.”

“Please tell me that wasn’t your actual plan...”

“That wasn’t my actual plan.”

Only Natasha could make a pouting squint look that threatening. “You’re lying.”

“You just told me what to say; you can’t be mad about me listening. You’re armed and we’re in one of the few places in the building without cameras. I’d like to survive this.” The burn of the soap was beginning to fade, but surprise, ire, and a quick hit to the head had still left Clint kinda dizzy. He eased his way along the wall to the corner shelf near the back of the shower, using it as an impromptu seat. “Or, ya know, at least not die from getting tasered in the shower. Even if the clean-up would be easier.”

“Explain.”

“If SHIELD included Stark and Rogers on some kind of Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier cover-up team, I thought this might make them edgy.”

“You’re trying to piss them _all_ off? Or just _Steve_?” Was it disbelief or amusement that set her biting her lower lip?

“Steve is hardly the poster-guy for considered plans, Nat. Especially when things get personal. Maybe he’d let something slip? Or start questioning me about it. _You_ taught me how much there is to gain from what interests your interrogators.” He could see the gears starting to turn behind Natasha’s eyes with that. Sure, he might not do as much of the verbal cat-and-mouse as Natasha, but he’d been a better than decent spy, even before they’d become partners. He hadn’t spent all those years since learning _nothing_ from her. Clint just tried his best not to play up what he’d learned.

“Everybody knows I rib folks when they fuck up. I figured I could always play it off as a shitty joke if anyone got touchy.” People underestimated him, especially when it came to the more social aspects of the job, the mind games and human asset work. Yes, he could be inept, but that presumed ineptitude was his ace in the hole for this op. “Naming a three-legged cat after SHIELD target number one – who might just happen to actually be _two_ of history’s most legendary snipers – is something I would do on a normal day. And if somebody panics or screws up to our advantage, then...”

Natasha swallowed, nodded. “That... That is actually a good plan.”

“Thanks.” Clint couldn’t stop the grin pulling across his face. He tried; he really did, but he just could not stop the little giggle that bubbled up behind it.

“Tell me next time.” Nat cut her eyes to him, and he put a lid on it. “Or I _will_ taser you in the shower, and I will keep you alive.”

“Message received. You, uh...”  He motioned to the toilet, already reaching for the tattered curtain. He could feel the shampoo drying against the back of his neck, and it was starting to itch. “You wanna sit down so I can, ya know, finish?”

He presumed Natasha took a seat. He knew she hadn’t left when, just as the water was turned back on, a slim hand darted in to grab his aids for him. She couldn’t be too angry with him, then; she might have let him ruin one, otherwise. Clint kept the rest of his shower as quick as he could. If she was sticking around, she clearly had more to say.

Natasha handed him a fresh towel, signing along with her words until he was dry enough for his aids, again. “You need to be careful about leaving him alone. Just in case someone actually decides to take Hawkeye seriously.”

She'd forgiven him, then. Codenames outside of work had been something he'd passed on to Kate, but it had started with Natasha. “Two chances of that, Black Widow.”

“Even so, you might want to keep an eye on him Thursday.” She leaned in against his shoulder, pulling him into the half hug they usually only shared before a mission. “I’ve got a meeting with Phil.”

☆°•°•°•

Bucky trotted happily at Clint’s feet, step’ste-step-ing along at a leisurely pace. They had learned to stick close to the buildings, mostly out of the worst of the crowds, and away from the petting hands of strangers. Still, they hadn’t had too many people pester them since they’d started these walks. Maybe it was his size and naturally down-turned ears. Maybe it was being with a guy that was over six feet of muscle who was making every effort to avoid eye contact. Maybe it was just that this was New York, where people had already been running out of fucks to give back when he and Stevie were still in short-pants. Whatever the case, most people just stepped around them. 

The keyword being _most_ people. This close to the ground, it was easy to hear foot-steps, easy to track the flow of people around them, to know when something was too regular within the sea of bodies. They were being followed.

Bucky swivelled his head, eyes tracking their very conspicuous tail. _Female in the lead; male behind. Microbraids in left side-ponytail, large purple bow; short-cropped fade and earmuffs. Lavender rain coat; brown peacoat. Estimates: less than six years; mid-to-late 30s. Threat: Minimal._ Bucky shook his head in a vain attempt to settle his thoughts into some kind of order.

The girl tugged at her father’s hand; he could pick up her higher voice even among the street noise. “Daaaaad… Daddy… It’s him! It’s HawkGuy!”

His roommate seemed to have noticed, too; Clint flinched, all but imperceptibly, and slumped a bit more. At the next opportunity, he turned down an access street, though he didn’t change his pace.

“Sweetie, that’s not _Hawkeye_. Not every man in a purple hoodie is a superhero, baby, even if he does have a cat.”

“No, Daddy. I seen him. That’s the ‘vengers kitty. See? He’s got a grump face and three legs. An’ that white guy looks just like the picture I seen on your phone. _That IS HAWKGUY!”_

 _That_ got his human’s attention. Bucky ended up trotting out to the end of his leash, feeling the collar press against his neck before he realized Barton had stopped walking. He was _letting_ the pair catch up to them? Bucky watched as he passed his free hand over his face, sighing before putting on a passable smile. He scurried back to stand at the archer’s side as Clint turned around. “Can I help you folks?”

The man had the decency to look embarrassed at least. The little girl just grinned, showing a gap where she’d lost a tooth and bouncing on the balls of her feet as her father spoke. “I… look, man, I’m really sorry, but my Bea here thinks you’re a superhero-”

“Can I have your autograph, Mister HawkGuy?!”

Children, unlike adults, knew no subtlety. Bucky could begrudgingly respect that. At least this one wasn’t trying to pick him up.

Clint just seemed rather perplexed by the whole exchange. “Umm…”

The man stepped closer – too close, in Bucky’s opinion – to his human. “Hey, I… I get that you’re not him and all, but could ya just? She finally stopped being embarrassed over her aid after she found out about his, so…”

Even from the ground, Bucky could see the shift on the man’s face the moment he actually looked up at the person he was addressing. Clint’s beanie had ridden up to one side, moving just enough to show a hint of purple behind his ear. Bea’s dad gawked. “Holy, shit, are you-? You’re really- Shit!”

“Daddy! No-no words!”

“You’re really Hawk-?! But you’re in-” The man motioned to the ratty sweatshirt, the faded jeans, the socks with slides because Clint had only been able to find one of his sneakers.

“He’s got secret demitty, Daddy. Like Spydeeman.” Bea tugged at her father’s sleeve, speaking with the certainty only a child could muster. She turned her large brown eyes back on Clint, lifting back her bow to tap at the aid resting behind her ear. “Will you sign my ear, Mister HawkGuy?”

Even from the ground, Bucky could see the very real smile that split his human’s face. Clint rubbed just behind his own ear, looking giddy, if a little embarrassed. He squatted down to the little girl’s level. “How about we take a picture, and I’ll sign it and send it to you? Then you can keep it forever when you grow up and get a new ear?”

“Really?” The child looked so happy that Bucky almost didn’t mind when she flung herself onto Clint, trying to get tiny arms around him in a hug. He completely understood. After all; his human was the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bea just outed her dad as a _BirdSpotter_. Bless her little heart!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that! Only took me 11 chapters to incorporate the lead-in line in the description. Huh.
> 
> While I did finally find a beta-reader - one of the lovely people of tumblr who I will highlight in the next beta-read chapter - I had this on schedule, so it is up here un-beta'd.
> 
> This is a majorly self-indulgent chapter. More notes at the end.

It was already half-three, and Bucky had run out of ways to amuse himself. Lucky had been out with Other Hawkeye since Sunday, leaving him without company. The television was still on, and the infomercials had distracted for a time, but he’d grown bored once they started repeating at two a.m. Bucky curled up on his pillow and stared at the door.

He’d wanted to enjoy a nice evening of lap pets and cartoons, which they had been at before that stupid phone call. Clint had set him on the sofa as soon as he was off the line, slipping on his brace and smaller, hip-hanging quiver under a sweatshirt. The bow he’d opted to carry. _‘I’ve gotta go help a… friend. Kinda owe him one, but I won’t be long. Stay in tonight, okay?’_ One ear scratch later, and his roommate had been gone.

Bucky batted his hood up over his face. The shirts and sweaters _were_ helping, a bit, though not as much as having somebody else nearby. The warmth they provided was a visceral counterpoint to his dreams; almost as good as Barton, but not quite.

He was debating staying near the door versus trying to sleep on Clint’s pillow when the heavy tread sounded in the hall. A woman’s voice, rough and perturbed, muttered as footsteps drew nearer the door.

_“Shit… where are your keys… I could just kick it in.”_

_“No… ‘m the super… Don’t wanna hafta fix it, Jess… Left pocket…”_

Bucky could hear the key slide home. The lock turned, and the door swung inward, two people shuffling into the apartment before the door closed behind them.

Clint hadn’t come home with more than minor injuries in months. Most of those his roommate had merely grumbled over, verbally scolding himself for his self-injury. Bucky could hardly remember a time when his roommate hadn’t been sporting at least a few bandages and bruises. Clint had been worse for wear after a small handful of overnight missions, but he’d already been stitched and wrapped up by the time he shuffled into the apartment.

Bucky hadn’t been ready for blood, certainly not covering half of his friend’s face.

Clint's cheek was resting listlessly on the head of the woman who, despite her size, seemed to easily support him. She was closer his own height – well, what Bucky remembered was his height – than Barton’s, in jeans and a leather jacket. She’d looped his arm around her shoulder, and was half-dragging him toward the couch. She froze a moment when she saw him move, then relaxed. “Huh. Cat.”

Clint’s voice was muffled in her hair. “Jessica, Sergeant. Sarge, Jess.”

Bucky’s shock over seeing the mess that had left the house as his intact roommate gave way to anger. Anger that, of course, demanded he aim for the most likely reason for his human’s injury.

“Oh, what the fuck?! That's my leg you little monster!”

He was not prepared when she flexed her foot and kicked; he'd been booted before, back when he was on the street, but not like this. This woman kicked like a fucking mule, and Bucky went flying. Some combination of training and _cat_ had him landing mostly on his feet on the kitchen counter. The drainboard, however, fared less well, sending two glasses to shatter on the floor.

"Damnit, Jones! … I ain’t… ain’t got that much to break.”

“Call off the furry deathclaw!” Bucky was already back and scrabbling up her leg, trying to wedge himself between this Jessica woman and _his_ human.  “Shit!”

“Sarge, let… leggo a’Jessica.” Clint dropped the tenuous hold on his bow, batting at the cat’s ears. “Get down!”

Bucky slid to the floor with a reluctant hiss, quickly moving out of the way of Jessica’s boots, but sticking close. He was all but stepping on her heels as she practically carried Clint to the sofa. She laid him down more delicately than he’d expected, effortlessly positioning him in a supported lean on the cushions. “Jesus-fuck, what is _wrong_ with that thing?”

“‘e’s possessive. Weird, too…”

“Yeah, no shit. Hold still.” There was a loud rip. A moment later, the front half of Clint’s hoodie, along with pieces of sleeve, landed on the floor. His bracer and glove followed, more carefully removed, but both crusted with blood he sincerely hoped wasn’t Barton’s.

When Jessica turned, Bucky was right behind her, fur still lifted, between the table and the couch. He wasn’t sure what effect blocking her path would have – especially being less than knee high – but he wasn’t going to just let her traipse around their home. Whatever they’d been doing, she had let his human get hurt.

She glared down her nose at him, looking unimpressed by the display. “Move, or I'm wearing you home as a hat.”

He sat up a little straighter, tail lashing behind him. “Nrrrng…”

“Guh, fine. You stay there, and _I’ll_ move.” Another kick sent the table careening over the hardwood, stopping only when it smacked into the television console. She stomped through the newly cleared space to his side. “Asshole… Hawkeye, where’s your kit?”

“Closest one’s in the kitchen… above the-the toaster.”

As she walked away, he slipped up to the side of the couch, nose resting on top of the cushions, inches from Clint’s face. Bucky could only hope the other guy looked worse, because Clint looked like he’d gone three rounds with a fucking linen mangle. Bruises were blooming and growing into each other along his entire left arm. His right arm sported a few shallow cuts, a smattering a bruises, and what looked suspiciously like road rash. The sticky sheen of fresh blood started at his forehead, darkening and crusting to a flaky maroon as the smear moved across his eye to his chin. Someone had gotten a few hits in on his face as well. He smelled like blood and garbage, two scents Bucky remembered well from… Before. Barton opened the less-blackened eye, returning the nose to his hand with a one-fingered pet. “Hey, pal… Oh, damn…  feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“Eh, part of one.” The medical kit landed open on the floor beside Bucky, and he started. Jessica shooed him away from the sofa, perching by Clint’s hip as she wiped at his face with a wad of gauze wrapping. She reached back for a bottle, ignoring how the cat’s eyes tracked her hands. “I thought _I_ lived in a sty… this place is disgusting.”

“Don’t you live in your office?”

“Yeah, but at least my shit is contained.” The smell of antiseptic hit his nose, but Jessica blocked most of his view. He could have jumped around the back of the couch, but… He wasn’t exactly keen on seeing how hard she could hit, and he didn’t want to distract her from helping Clint. Times like this, Bucky really missed his other arm. ‘course, he also missed hot showers, and liquorice, and thumbs. He’d gladly be stuck with one arm if he could get a thumb back. Even one-handed, he could have been more helpful than he was now.

“What’s with the new furball? Other than being a god-damned asshole.” Jessica tossed a few pieces of bloodied gauze wadding onto the floor.

“It’s kinda complicated.”

“Oh, so this is facebook, now? You and the cat an item? I mean, I could make a pussy joke-”

“ _Jessica…_ ”

“-but I think that’s a boy cat, right? Not that it matters, I know, but I’m trying to be less of a human garbage-fire right now. Unlike some guys I call friends that let themselves get hit by trucks.” The pile of gauze pads was still growing, though the last few were more of a smudged pink than that awful brownish-red. “Shouldn’t need stitches, at least.”

Clint hissed, and Bucky seriously needed to get a hold of himself. The man didn’t need looking after by _him_ , even if Bucky really wouldn’t mind. Shredding this Jessica woman’s arm would only mean she took longer to patch his human up, and that she stayed longer in their apartment.

“Oh, be quiet. You’re fine, it’s not even that deep.” She grabbed a butterfly bandage, paused, then got a second. Jessica spent another few minutes examining his battered roommate, putting a wrapping around the abraded arm, and generally prodding at all the newly reddened and purpled places. “Nothing feels broken, and you’re tracking alright. Want me to stay?”

“Fff-no… Just, just hand me my phone.”

She rolled her eyes, but reached under him to slip the phone out of his back pocket, dropping it onto his chest. The bandages were piled atop the already full trash bin. Jessica brought back a glass of water from the kitchen, forced some pain meds into Clint’s hand, and sat there literally watching him take them.

Huh. Maybe she wasn’t such a horrible person after all. She even refilled the glass, putting it on the – now even more wobbly, but at least properly repositioned – coffee table. “You gonna behave when I'm gone?”

“After th’ last three hours? Yeah, ’m done with stupid.”

“My mom used to say nothing’s stupid if you learn something. So what did you learn?” Her chuckle was a little too obvious. “Or maybe relearn?”

Clint sighed, lids dropping, face drawn down like it had when he realized he’d lost his sunglasses on top of his head. “Never help Matt.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be fine.” Jessica smirked. She shrugged back into her coat and headed for the door. “I’m gonna go check on _Da Red Evil_ ; make sure whatever dumpster he wound up in isn’t on fire.”

“We still on f’r poker? Sam migh’ be up.”

“I’m hosting next month; you’re hosting never until this place isn’t a health code violation.” She slammed the door behind her. Bucky could hear her boots tromping down the hall.

Now that they were alone, Bucky wasted no time jumping onto the arm of the sofa, looking at Clint upside down. His nose pressed into his roommate’s forehead as he whined.

A moment later – accompanied by pained grunt – a bandaged hand was guiding him down onto Clint’s chest. “Hey, Sarge. Yer meaner th’n usual. Wha's up with you, huh?”

What was up with him? Couldn’t Clint understand how worried he was? How much it hurt to see someone he car- someone who was a _friend_ come home looking like he’d been run over? And then to hear that maybe that might be _exactly_ what had happened? It wasn’t just that Clint was his contact to get to Stevie; though if Barton died, he would have to resume with no one to reset him or modify his parameters. Bucky actually _liked_ his roommate. It was in a way that didn’t quite make sense, but the man was important to him. He fed him, and petted him, and brought him cute hoodies. Clint made him laugh – sort of, inside his brain, if he was remembering how to laugh correctly, which maybe he wasn’t – and didn’t treat him like he was a… a thing. An object. A tool. He was different from the others, whose faces blurred together to the tune of _‘zhelaniye, rzjavyi, syemnadtzet…’_ His human was… special. “Mrouuu…”

Bucky butted his head up under Clint’s chin, trying to explain, but mostly just forcing out a string of warbled mewls that were drowned in a steady purr. He pressed in against the man’s cheek, furred face scraping over stubble. He could hear Barton chuckle softly, feel half-wrapped fingers rub down his back.

“Awww, cat… no… Don’ worry. ’m fine, Sarge. W’re cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be asking if this is a more self-indulgent chapter than normal, and the answer is: **Yes.** Blatantly, obviously: **YES.** I did as much research on Jessica Jones as I could, but based her heavily off of the television version of J.J. Yes, this will pay off later. No, it won’t be any less of a self-indulgence, but this is fanfiction, and I will play in this sandbox.
> 
> If you haven’t figured it out, I headcanon two of my favourite dumpster babies (Matt Murdock and Clint Barton) as regular _‘Oh, shit, so this is happening!’_ buddies. _Murdock & Barton: Falling of Rooves Since Always!_ (Alternatively: _Devil-Birb: Bros For Life!_ )
> 
> Yes, Jessica calls Buckitty _"deathclaw."_ I don't know if she plays any of the Fallouts, but she's in the right age demographic, and it seemed like something she'd yell at a pissy cat that weighed over a stone and was trying to kill her calf.
> 
>  _“Da Red Evil”_ is how my dad refers to the really terrible Ben Afleck _Daredevil_ movie. He’s not from New York, but he’s from an area in Pennsylvania with a similar lack of emphasis on the _‘th’_ diphthong, so _‘da red evil’_ and _‘the red evil’_ sound very similar when he is sleepy/angry. Just Jessica sharing a family in-joke. And being a snarky, mocking bitch because reasons.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, similar situation to Chapters 6 & 7 with 12 & 13, where 13 will be shorter than normal. If I could just wrangle these characters into doing as I wish... It's like herding cats some days...

The inside of his brain was dark, full of a laughter that was careless of his damaged ears, echoing and cavernous. Numb for a single overloading moment before everything hurt. It wouldn’t happen, again. _‘Tasha promised it wouldn’t happen, again, but_ \- There was weight against his chest, forcing him to breathe slowly, to stay calm when he was railing against the walls inside his mind. He couldn’t get enough air. He was being smothered! _Lo-!_

No. He knew this. This was another nightmare. ‘Tasha’s meeting and a stupid night playing hero wreaking havoc on his mind. Clint drew the breath inward slowly, ignoring the aches and the pressure. Injuries, that was all they were. No one controlling him, no one even _here_ with him. Just pain and memories. He let the breath out. He was home, battered but safe; he was fine.

Clint blinked, meeting a pair of mirror-blue eyes in the darkness, and struck without thought. It was only when he heard a sad yowl that he realized. “Oh! Oh, shit, Sarge?!”

He felt the cat jump off his feet as he sat upright. At the same time, his feline roommate threw himself toward the stairs, tripping over his missing front paw as he scrambled into the bedroom. Clint wrenched himself off the couch to follow, grabbing his phone and landing hard on the floor. The stairs were none too kind with his injuries, either.

“Kitty?” Flicking the lights on revealed no sign of Sergeant. He toggled the flashlight on his phone and peered under the bed, sweeping over the floor until it passed over the angry ball of fur. The cat opened his mouth in a hiss, scooting farther away as he extended a hand. Clint tried a few soothing noises, but Sergeant wasn’t moving. Damnit… he could have used someone to talk to, and the cat was so passive aggressive when he was pissed off. It wouldn’t do much good trying to get him out from under there; he was already nearly down an arm.

For now, he could just get clean and try to go back to sleep. It wasn’t even six, yet, and he’d slept through the daylight plenty of times before. Might as well. Clint slid his aids off with a sigh. He’d need to clean them later; he’d been in a dumpster, which meant they’d been in there, too. Tomorrow, then; he wasn’t going in Avenging like this unless he had to. And he probably smelled as gross as he felt. Jess had done a decent job cleaning him up – though the pants might be a lost cause – but he still needed a shower.

☆°•

“You gonna come out?” He tried to keep his voice even, hoping he wasn’t too loud as he poked his head under the bed. Keeping those blue-brown eyes locked on Clint’s face, Sergeant scooted backwards, positioning himself dead-center back against the wall beneath the headboard. “Sergeant?” The cat sneezed, folded ears laying back further on his head. “Snyegahvik?” That one earned him a full mouthful of teeth, the cat's jaw so wide his eyes closed a bit, which somehow seemed even angrier with no accompanying hiss. Well, then.

Leaving his towel on the floor, Clint yanked on a t-shirt, along with fresh boxers, and crawled under the covers. Every-fucking-thing hurt. Without a dog or cat, the bed was just too empty. It was unnerving to see Sarge’s pillow unoccupied after so long. He fluffed up the hoodie on top of it, just in case the cat decided to come up and forgive him. Which, yeah, unlikely. That reaction had been a pretty concise _‘Fuck you!’_ He rolled onto his back, pulling a hand down his face. “I- I'm sorry, buddy… I have nightmares, same as you, I guess.”

He hated this part, but he’d been through enough SHIELD psych-reviews and therapy sessions to know that this worked for him, even if trusting the process sucked. Still, it didn’t hurt to pretend that the cat was listening. “Haven’t seen too many of mine, have you? Been a while since I had one. Tends to happen when, well, sometimes it happens after – You know I get pretty roughed up with the job? – sometimes after a hard week at work. Sometimes if I spend too much time around blue neon, or I guess the eyes in the darkness thing just now… You know what I mean? No, you probably don't…”

“See, there was… this guy messed around with my brain a couple years back. He was…” Evil seemed too weak a word. How was he supposed to describe the feeling of having his mind disassembled and rebuilt to someone else’s specs? “It was like I was alone in my own head, except he was with me… I could see out, but I couldn't do anything to stop myself. I did a lot of really bad shit, Sarge… and, in the moment, I liked it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw the bedspread dip as a white paw patted the edge of the mattress; his only warning before his fuzzy roommate landed on the bed. Sarge arranged himself on the pillow without acknowledgement. The cat turned his face toward the window, settling into a hunched ball, tail ticking slowly, side-to-side.

Clint focused his gaze back to the ceiling, eyes tracing the lines of familiar water-stains. Not great company, but – _Fuck it, anyway, right? –_ Sergeant didn’t give a crap about this, and he couldn’t hear the cat growling if he _was_ still pissed off. “Kind of… Just been thinking about this guy… My friend, Nat… You remember her, don't you? Redhead? Anyway, she's going to see this guy we worked with, that I sort of, maybe, almost killed? Did kill. During the whole guy-in-my-head thing, but it was still me… It's- It's really fucking confusing, Sarge.”

“I mean, we're still friends, but it's hard to hang out with a guy when the first thing I wanna say is, _‘I still have nightmares about that time you died ‘cause I let the bad guys fuck with my head.’_ And he’s okay now, mostly… I just sometimes… It’s- it’s terrifying when you're not in control of your own mind. I don't know if that makes sense, but it happens… And, anyway, Nat, right? Well, her fists are harder than they look. She snapped me out of it.” He wasn’t sure quite when his nose had started running, but the burn in his eyes he noticed. Clint swiped his face on his sleeve. At least he could pretend it was still too dark to see how wet the fabric got. He felt the mattress shift a bit, and quietly hoped the cat hadn't left.

“But I can’t stop thinking that it could happen, again. Or that it’s only dormant or something. That he’ll come back.” Arms crossed over his chest, Clint tried to give himself a hug. It didn’t help all that much. Might as well get the rest of it out so he could sleep. Even if it did mean rolling onto his side and curling up. The cat was still there; a little closer, though still not looking at him. “I guess it's just, we get people, like that kid, or some of the people at work, and they look at me like I'm a hero... And I don't... I mean, you know I'm an Avenger. But I'm not- I’m not a hero. Not like them. I'm just me. More of a hero by technicality. Or association? Right place, right time sorta thing.”

“And I've got a few other friends, that mostly get it? I mean… Aw, hell, you met Jess. She understands this whole thing way more than most people would, but she's also better at dealing with it than I am. Or… I guess she’s pretty screwed up over it, too, she’s just had more time away? Like, she doesn’t need people when it comes back, just liquor. I dunno.” The soft brush against his cheek made him blink. It took Clint a moment to realize it was the end of Sergeant’s tail.

The cat had scooted back and turned, so that he was more on Clint’s pillow than his own. Sarge's head was tucked beneath his front paw, eyes closed, though he was clearly awake. The cat's fluffy tail flicked against his forehead.

Clint slid a gentle hand along Sergeant’s back. He tried to keep his touch light, but it was just too comforting to be able to card his fingers through the cat’s soft fur. “… Look, I know I’m rambling, and I’m really sorry. And you probably hate me right now, but … well, Lucky’s not here, and I… I’m gonna try 'n’ cuddle you, and just hope you don’t claw my face off.”

His concern proved unnecessary as the cat allowed himself to be pulled into the circle of Clint’s arms, going so far as to butt his head into the light petting that followed. Sergeant reached out, paw whapping into his face a few times, though clearly not maliciously.

Glancing down, he realized the cat still wasn’t looking at him, eyes closed tightly as he tried to get his head under Clint’s chin. “You can open your eyes, Sarge.”

Sergeant leaned back, opening wide eyes that were still shockingly blue at the centres. His ears drooped, nose twitching a little as his gaze first met Clint’s, then slid away. The last time the cat had looked like that was after he’d been caught flushing the toilet. If Sarge had been human, Clint would have sworn the cat was embarrassed.

“You-? You were trying not to scare me?” The cat said something that looked a lot like _Mrrp_ , then patted against his cheek, again. _‘That's right.’_ Another paw to the cheek, and then the fluffy head was once more pushing against him as Sergeant nuzzled into his chest. He’d worked with people – actual, _human_ people – that would not have been as considerate as this cat was trying to be. Clint gave the very clearly not-cat a squeeze, fingers settling behind his ears. “Thanks, Sarge…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Loki's eyes aren't _technically_ blue, but let's go with it, yeah? You're 12 chapters into a Bucky is a cat because reasons fic, so I know ya'll can handle it.


	13. Chapter 13

“Okay, see, usually I’m the one wide awake in here at ungodly hours.” The kitchen should have been dark; Banner was out, and he had only just come up from the labs. Yet, Tony walked in to find the island light on, the scent of chicory coffee in the air, and a despondent lump of Steve draped across the bar. He opened the freezer, digging around in the back for something quick. “You want waffles?”

“I could eat, yeah…” Rogers shrugged, propping up on his elbow and almost tipping off the bar stool. Even for three a.m. Steve, he looked like garbage. Which probably meant this wasn’t his first night of not sleeping.

Tony dropped all eight waffles into the two quad-toasters. He only wanted two, at most, but cranky-sleepy Steve was never a fun time. This ought to keep him from being hangry.

Rogers frowned at the window, mind elsewhere as Tony got butter, jam, and powdered sugar laid out on the centre island.

The silence made his teeth itch. “What got you so pissy this week?”

“Pardon?” He had a feeling Steve honestly had not heard that; the man’s gaze was frighteningly vacant.

"You’ve been unusually touchy since last weekend. Banner noticed, and Romanov asked if I was being, _‘an insensitive asshole’_ before she left yesterday. Which, completely possible some days – I get snappy when I’m busy – but I don’t think this is entirely my fault.” A ding from the toasters sent him plating the hot waffles; two for himself and six for Steve. He covered his in a thin layer of fig jam, waiting to eat until the other man had sufficiently drowned his own in butter and powdered sugar. Rogers could have eaten funnel cakes for breakfast and not gained a pound, but Tony still found it mildly disgusting at times. “So, what’s got our resident Sunshine Stevie so glum?”

Steve had the better part of a whole waffle already in his mouth. He chewed barely enough to swallow before he replied, “You are… not great at this, Tony.”

“I’m trying, Capsicle.” The last person he’d had chicory coffee with had been Aunt Peggy. He wasn’t exactly a fan. “Plan on getting an A for effort. So, spill.”

“Clint has a cat.” By the way Rogers was shaking his head, Tony knew he must have pulled a face. Steve was quick to set that concern to rest. “No, we don’t need a team pet, but… Clint named it _Winter Kitten_.”

“Huh.” From what he could remember of feed pictures and their terse call – now that he thought on it, he hadn’t heard from Barton in a while – the cat in question _had_ been missing a front leg. Not that anyone should have known the Winter Solder was presumed to currently be missing an arm. But it wasn’t as if cats wandered around with metal prostheses on the regular.

Another waffle disappeared into the gravitational well of the black hole where Rogers’ mouth ought to have been. The grimace, however, was likely not due to him nearly choking. “And, uh... he also called it _Buckitty_. Gave a reason, but still.”

That was a bit of a shock to the system. Irrespective of his regular disregard for plans, weather, or proper meals, Clint Barton was a smart guy. Still, even he shouldn’t have been putting those two things together. They'd kept a tight lid on this. Tony knew he wasn’t the source of any leaks; Agent Coulson was a closed box on the best of days. Steve clearly hadn’t said anything – he’d barely spoken to Tony about this at all, even after they cleared most of the air – so that didn’t leave them much to go on. “Any news on that from your end?”

“Nothing from anyone I know. You?”

“No word on the wires. Not a sighting, whisper, or rumour in almost two years.” He had overturned every digital rock he could find, but nothing related to either Barnes or the Soldier had scurried out. He’d set aside an entire mainframe in the basement for storing any hint that might pass their way – reticent to leave any such data in the cloud – but there’d been nothing concrete once they’d found the arm. HYDRA hadn’t exactly been quiet on the matter, though chatter pointed to the fact that, at present, they were unable to locate the rest of the Winter Soldier, either. With so many resources focused on the task, it seemed unlikely that they’d missed anything. There were, perhaps, a few analogue channels to which Hawkeye might have access, though. “Think Barton’s found something?”

“I didn’t even think he knew to _look_ for anything. And, no, I don’t think he has. Clint can be reckless-”

That was hilarious, coming from Rogers and addressed to him. Tony snorted into his coffee.

“To be fair, that applies to most of us.” Steve tipped the mug his way with a tight half-grin. “And he can be reckless, but Clint’s not stupid. I’m pretty sure he’d be crowing from the rooftops-”

There was a question.  “Do hawks crow?”

“- or at least letting someone know, if he actually found the Winter Soldier.” Rogers shrugged and returned to demolishing his pre-breakfast, fixedly not looking up from the plate. His shoulders drooped, and he took on the hunch that had first been captured in the pre-serum photos Tony remembered from his dad’s office. “I just can’t help thinking that maybe… Maybe.”

 _Oh, Steve… Even after that whole trip?_ It hadn’t really sunk in how much this still ate at him – just how much Steve Rogers had invested into rescuing James Barnes – until last year, right about the time the other man had put him through a wall. Tony knew Steve was still coming to grips with the upcoming suspension of the search, but the trip to Wakanda was supposed to have helped. Granted, he had spent most of Roger’s time away destroying then improving the team’s gear, and effectively locked in the lab to avoid conversation, but he had been processing. He’d taken that time to at least _try_ and wrap his brain around this whole shitstorm.

He certainly wasn't happy to think that Cap was still trying to recover the man who had murdered his parents. It was only that, on some level, Tony got it. He’d tried to save Obi, and Stane had gone off the rails without any help from HYDRA torturers mucking around with his brain. Bucky Barnes hadn’t been so lucky.

So, no, he didn’t have to like it, or even endorse it, but Tony could understand it. And as bull-headed as Rogers could be, it still bothered him to see a teammate like this. “Steve, it’s been _years_ since we cleared that base. If he was out there, we’d have found him. _Someone_ would have found him. Even without the arm, he’d be hard to miss with the sweeps we’ve been running, and that’s not even counting SHIELD.”

Steve nodded, still picking at his food.

Tony dumped his second waffle onto Steve's plate, unsurprised when it was immediately dusted in sugar, and put his own dish in the washer. He gave Rogers a last salute with his coffee mug before heading back to his own floor. Sleep wouldn’t be coming this morning, but he had to make an effort. He could stare at the ceiling for a few hours more before officially starting his day.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter took me FOREVER to get done; stuff just kept needing to happen before it. This was literally supposed to show up as **_Chapter 9_**. So for those of you that I promised Coulson for, here is Phillip J as well as I could manage him. This is the chapter with which I am the least happy so far, and that includes writing that comes on the other side of it. I'm sorry if it's sloggy; I really did try you guys.

In light of this meeting, retirement was quite an appealing idea, even if he would have to leave the archive recovery unfinished. He rarely came in any longer, preferring to supervise his teams directly, but there were certain of SHIELD’s agents that would meet with no one except Phillip J. Coulson. Given the… _reputations_ of most of those, securing a basement office away from the main work spaces – one with only a single hallway window, and on an otherwise low traffic floor – even in a facility this small had been a simple matter.

Thankfully, most of the _exceptional_ agents were people he could count as friends. Inconvenient, semi-duplicitous, regularly lethal friends, but friends nonetheless. Their intentions usually aligned with his, even if some of their methods were not wholly standard. They were the exceptions that proved the rules by breaking them, as it were. Before, his oversight with Delta had extended to results, and the safety of his team. Phil only hoped whatever line this meeting walked kept _him_ skirting proper regulatory boundaries. He had enough paperwork to manage at present. “Good morning, Agent Romanov.”

“Director Coulson.” She left the door ajar. “How are you?”

“You know that I’m no longer officially a director, Agent. Thank you for asking, though, I'm well. It’s been pretty quiet here.” There were only microphones in his offices, but there was a camera just outside the door. He knew she’d seen it, which meant she wanted this to look like a friendly meeting. Which Phil could almost believe it might be, if not for the semi-rhythmic pinching twitch of her right thumb and forefinger. _‘- .-. ..- ... - -- .’_ And, since he did _‘trust her,’_ he braced his hands on his desk, smiling back as he stood. “How have you and Agent Barton been holding up?”

“You know Clint. He took in another stray.” She waited for him to grab his suit jacket, falling into step beside him as they headed for the central stairwell. She linked her arm in his, delicately steering them toward the small cafeteria. Two senior agents chatting over lunch; nothing to see here, after all.

“Mm? A stray?” Romanov tended to use that particular word in a self-referential manner, and only occasionally for Maximoff. Unlikely, though, that she was speaking about the Scarlet Witch. Just what – or who – had wandered into Hawkeye’s circle _this_ time. Retired agent, perhaps? Maybe a lead to one of the HYDRA defectors following their restructuring?

They were queueing now; Phil accepted the tray she handed him with a grateful nod. “Well, that’s not so unusual. Barton’s a bit of a softie, after all. But how are you?”

Natasha slid a tiny salad onto her tray, followed by the largest slice of strawberry short-cake available, a slice of apple pie, two frosted cupcakes, and a layered cream custard. “I’m well. It’s just that Agent Barton isn’t always on top of paperwork.”

“That he is not.” Phil Coulson couldn’t help the concern that flitted across his face at that; there was a seven-layer slice of double chocolate cake right there, and Natasha had completely bypassed it.  He’d _never_ seen Natasha forego chocolate unless the mission relied upon it, especially not when the chocolate in question was a layer-cake. This didn’t bode well. With no small amount of trepidation, Phil chose a bowl of soup and the chocolate cake for himself, following Natasha to a table along the wall.

“I had offered to assist Captain Rogers with some paperwork last month…” She was already halfway through the custard by the time she spoke. Her lips curled at the outside, but he knew better than to mistake that for a smile. “Though he seems to have misfiled a few documents before his vacation. You know how he gets when he’s distracted.”

“Mm.” That narrowed the list of reasons for this visit considerably, though he had no desire to see his former team muck around in any of them, if he was honest. Phil flipped his tie back over his shoulder as they sat, not wanting to risk dunking it in his soup. “He needed the break, though.”

“Don’t we all? Still… I know it’s a lot, with you short-handed because of the hiring freeze, but we can’t just leave his work unfinished.” She spooned a dollop of custard onto the plate, swirling something. When that was done, Natasha began picking apart the cake, pulling out strawberries with the edge of her fork and arranging them around the custard into a star. “Since I had a bit of downtime before I head back, I thought I might clear that up. Take some of the load off his plate.”

 _Oh, please, not that one._ Of all the situations Romanov and Barton could have stumbled into, Phil sincerely hoped it wasn’t _that_ one. His only chance for reprieve might be that it was a question about Wakanda; she could still be talking about Steve. That would be easy enough to answer without blowing the lid off the entire failed operation. “Nice of you.”

“Speaking of plates, trade you?” She had already reached to pull the chocolate slice off of his tray, depositing her mangled shortcake in its place with the same false smile.

“Of course.” Letters in white on a white plate weren’t easy to read at a distance. Up close, the tiny _JBB_ traced in custard at the centre of the strawberry star made Phil’s stomach lurch. He stabbed at the offending fruit with his fork, running it through the egg-cream before he ate it. Phil tried to disguise the grimace he could feel coming on with another few bites of destroyed cake. He was beginning to wish she had just walked in and shot him.

There were very few ways this could end well. After all, the Black Widow had just waltzed in and, over a very cordial brunch, happened to let slip that she had used Captain America’s credentials to access files on Mission Repatriation. Further, that she or Hawkeye might have actually _found_ a real connection back to the Winter Soldier. He should have taken a third aspirin before she arrived. “I'll be happy to help with those forms, by the way, but there’s a bit of a backlog that still needs to be reviewed.”

“Nothing I haven’t survived once or twice before.” She brushed away invisible lint from her shoulder. She had a well-concealed scar there; a bullet wound from her training in the Red Room. Left by her firearms trainer, a certain cognitively altered former-Brooklynite. Her eyes met his. “I’ll be alright if I can just get a feel for what he missed.”

“Certainly.” Phil knew the both of them would go in without backup – they were both horribly consistent that way – but he couldn’t help the offer. “Though, you know, I’m always more than willing to help.”

Natasha only shrugged, setting the empty cake plate to the side as she reached for her pie.

☆°•

They were back in his office, now, out of view of the cameras as Natasha closed the door behind her. “I hope Steve’s not in too much trouble over this.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, though there’s always extra paperwork with these sorts of things.” She’d always made this game easy, her mind never tripping as it plied together lies and truth into an otherwise innocuous conversation. For that, Phil would always be grateful.

“But first, before we wrap up, I wanted to show you something.” He nodded to a battered filing cabinet that kept pride of place on the back wall in his office. After the unfortunate personnel issues within SHIELD, Phil had rescued this lone original SSR wooden file cabinet from what remained of the archives. Though, if he was honest, he was convinced it would have survived all on its own through a combination of good construction and pure evil. Its alphabet labels were still the original manila paper inserts, and the drawers had never worked properly, even before it had gotten waterlogged. Explaining to Former Director Carter that he had wrenched his shoulder retrieving files from it had been one of the lowest points of his career. Still he had his reasons for keeping it. Phil smacked the side with his palm to loosen it up a bit, then yanked at the drawer. At least his hand held this time.

“Picked these up about two years ago, but it took me a while to catalogue them.” Inside, beneath the box holding his duplicate card collection, was false bottom panel, which he carefully lifted, revealing several sealed envelopes. It was, as Daisy might say, an _old school_ solution, but one that worked perfectly well, here. No one wrote on paper – least of all anyone with a clearance higher than Level 3 – unless it was specified by HR. As such, none of his fellow agents were likely to go looking for paper files in a secret drawer section, even if they did somehow wind up being able to get into his office alive without him. Fewer would be looking for microfiche, technically _pico_ fiche, or be able to read his steno. The transliterated notes were somewhat useless, otherwise. At some point, he’d have to teach it to his other teams, perhaps.

He slid the bottom archival envelope from the pile, careful not to muss the order, and passed it to Natasha “Thank you for indulging this little hobby of mine, Agent Romanov.”

“It’s cute. Did you get those at CapCon?” Good on her for rolling with what no one would question; him showing off his trading card collection. She raised an eyebrow at its contents. “They look pretty vintage.”

“From a private buyer’s collection out in Ohio, but they’re reproductions.” Instead of the hand-span thick folder laying out the evidence that the Winter Soldier was, in fact, James B. Barnes, there was only that small envelope. Everything they had compiled over the decades, and everything they still didn’t know about him. The raid on the last lab had given them a nearly functional version of the reprogramming apparatus, his arm, a few tissue samples that HYDRA had been using for who-knew-what, along with a book of trigger codes that might set the Winter Soldier doing all sorts of hideous things. And, of course, some nine reserve litres of blood that glowed faintly blue when placed in the dark, but that was unequivocally that of Sergeant James Barnes. The blood samples had been moved to storage. The arm and tissues had gone with Captain Rogers. The full files, though…

“Have you ever thought of getting your hands on an original?” He hadn’t seen her slip the envelope into her jacket as he closed the drawer, but it was gone by the time she leaned against his desk.

“Oh, no, there’s only one of those, and even I wouldn’t pay out for it.” Their current situation proved that extreme caution was absolutely a necessity; that sometimes the enemy _was_ out to get you, and they’d do it from the inside. It required a healthy level of paranoia. Which was why he’d insisted that the original files not be kept at SHIELD, but rather as far from anyone who might have skin in this game as possible. It had cost more than he’d wanted to spend – the promise of full SHIELD cooperation in any capacity, along with the return of Barnes’ arm, the lengthy negotiation concerning any additionally held vibranium, and a large chunk of his integrity for having to lie to Captain America – but it meant that the originals were now somewhere well out of reach in Wakanda. “There was a limited reproduction line to begin with, so this is worth quite a bit more than you might expect.”

 “Well, as long as they’re special to you.” She laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “But I should probably get back, soon.”

Their conversation was over, then. Natasha was either unwilling, or unable, to tell him anything more about this fool’s errand she and Clint seemed determined to throw themselves into. He patted her hand, trying to bury the worry with a smile as they headed up to the main level. “Well, don’t hesitate if something doesn’t make sense. Bureaucratic paperwork can be a nightmare, and I know how Agent Barton can get.”

“Rogers might be a bit of a flake about these things, but I know Clint will come through.”

If Natasha really thought that she and Clint had a better shot at finding Bucky Barnes than Captain America, well... Coulson shrugged. He was in no position to bar her from taking part in mission that didn’t officially exist. “Well, he’s lucky to have a friend like you. Just make sure you get those forms corrected.”

“Thank you for helping me with this, Phil. Will you get a chance to visit soon? Maybe come in to the city?” Natasha usually gave good hugs, and the added squeeze that spoke plainly that she understood just how concerned he was over this. It wasn’t enough to assuage his doubts, but he was proud of her for trying. “It’s worth it to come all the way out here to see you, but I miss brunch.”

“I think I’m due for a review trip in mid-May.” That was as long as he could foreseeably keep this to himself. Phil certainly wouldn’t send either of his new teams charging in, even with an Avenger’s escort, but this was still his operation. He would have to report the findings of Black Widow and Hawkeye, even if it was at a later time. “I’ll be supervising field teams until then, but afterward I’ll have a bit of a break. I can get the files at that point. Save you a trip?”

“I’ll make sure they’re squared away well before then.” One quick peck on the cheek, and she was headed for the glass doors. “Have a good day, Agent Coulson.”

“You as well, Agent Romanov.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha tapped out _t-r-u-s-t-m-e_ in Morse code on her wrist.
> 
> I have a thing for Natasha eating deserts/sweets/fancy coffee/etc. whenever she wants as a way to snub her training and programming; a big ol' Eff-You! to the Red Room for controlling her for so long. Not, of course, that she does it constantly, just that she indulges when she wants because no one can stop her now. And because cake is _usually_ less destructive than bullets.
> 
> We're pretty close to the halfway point plot-wise (barring changes like the one that pushed this section back by _5_ chapters!), so yay! Expect another break for a few days, possibly more than a week, as I throw back in to the dissertation. At this point, this fic is 3/5ths the length of that, and I really want to keep writing this, but... You know... responsible adulting and such.
> 
> Thanks for hanging on with me, peops!


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky was bored. Lying in the sun for hours would have been nice enough, if he were alone, but Clint was home. What his human was _not_ was paying attention to him. He sprawled further across the counter top, whining. “Mwoouu...”

“No, no can do, buddy.” That earned him a single pet while Clint dropped a bag of something beside him. “Got _work_ work today. I can’t stay.”

 _Work? No… stay…_ He rolled onto his back, paw batting at his human’s sleeve. Clint wasn’t supposed to work _today_. It was movie night. And his roommate never went out to work without coming back banged up or grumpy. Bucky couldn’t get his lap snuggles if Barton got himself all beat up. Not that Clint wouldn’t _let_ him snuggle, but he always felt guilty sitting on the man when he was injured. Bucky nosed into his hand, even as the man pulled it away. “Mreen…”

“I’m meeting ‘Tasha for... brunch – I guess it’s brunch? I’m probably going to be eating breakfast, even if it is lunch time, but there will be alcohol, so that makes it brunch – and then some paperwork. Probably gonna catch up a little bit, after.” His roommate was already heading for the stairs, again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back for movie night, but I’m inviting Nat, so don’t be an asshole this time!”

Bucky loosed a low growl. _Stupid Natalia!_ No, that wasn’t her name. Where had that come from? Why did he feel cold? He whined, again, looking pleadingly up at the bedroom door, wishing his human was still down here with him. “Nreeang!”

With Clint puttering around the apartment, he was left to amuse himself. He eyed the bag on the counter, ears flicking slightly. If he was going to be ignored _anyway…_

☆°•

The bag of office supplies had offered boxes of push pins and paper clips to paw, all of which had made satisfying jangling noises once he’d knocked them from the counter top onto the floor. _Cat brain_ had thrilled at the wanton act of destruction for curiosity’s sake, and Bucky had been free from guilt, knowing that nothing was breakable or particularly dangerous to put on the floor. The post-it notes had been wrapped in heavy plastic, so he hadn’t been able to tear off any of the pages; still, they had thudded onto the hardwood decently enough.

His real prize had been the spool of red and white striped kitchen twine. The tiny loop bow holding it together had given way easily under teeth and claws. He had batted it across the counter, watching as it unspooled, bouncing and rolling on the floor before the urge had become too great. He had to do it. He _needed_ to do it! He hadn’t felt the urge to attack so fiercely since Clint had sent him chasing in circles after a gun-sight.

Bucky pounced with a triumphant yowl, flinging the spool into the air. He rolled onto his back and chewed, letting the twine wrap around him, fighting it like a truly worthy opponent. _Eliminate target_. This was his mission. His purpose. _Eliminate target. Improvised weapons: Teeth, claws. Target has high tensile strength, minimal elasticity._  

“Sergeant?” 

_Asset sighted. Mission compromised. Abort mission._

“Seriously, cat, I was gone for ten minutes.” 

_Target obstructing escape route. Disengage target._

“Look at you…” 

_Disengage. Target..._

… There was no target. He was on his back, on the floor, tangled in string like an idiot as Clint glanced down at him with a disappointed frown, one hand behind his head, exasperated.

Embarrassed, Bucky tried to roll over and right himself. He failed. Miserably, of course, his paws catching at the string and tail whisking the floor as he only managed to rock halfway onto his side. Pathetic. “Mreerouwee?”

“Nope.” Clint stepped over him, careful not to drop the heavy-duty case in his arms. He set it beside the door, once more bypassing Bucky to gather up the scattered office supplies form the kitchen floor. “You put yourself there, so get yourself out.”

He ducked his head, chewed at the string around his back leg, but that only made things worse. Now his left leg was stuck up beside his ear. Bucky kicked his right leg out, almost rolling onto his front. Almost being the key word, because the string had now tangled the table leg, as well. He ended up, once again, on his back, half-hog tied with the damn string still in his mouth.  _Fuck!_ He turned – slightly, more of a lean really – looking back up at his human. “Mreeeennnyaaa?”

“Kinda think maybe you deserve it, Sarge, trashing my stuff like this.” Barton flopped back onto the couch. He made a point of pulling out another of Bucky’s toys – so _that_ was where his jingle tyre had gone – from beneath him, setting it carefully on the table. “I mean, ‘s not like I don’t spoil the crap outta you.”

That was true. Clint was lax about his own care, but he always made sure Sarge and Lucky had whatever they needed – _‘Gotta look out for my guys, right?’_ –  and a hell of a lot that they didn’t. The ever-growing pile of cat-sized hoodies would have been enough to prove that. He’d let his human down, and his roommate looked pretty pissed about it.

Bucky pulled his ears down. _Mission failure. Asset compromised. Return for reset._ He locked eyes with Clint, mewling pitifully.

His human sighed, wrapping hands around him and scooting him over the floor until Bucky was between his feet. “You’ll hold still, then?”

“Mrrrrrp.” Of course, he wasn't going to move. He was pretty fucking stuck for the time being.

“Alright. Hold still.” Barton shook his head, but Bucky could tell he was fighting a grin. His snorted laugh didn’t exactly help the situation. “Crap, Sarge, were you trying to kill it?”

 _Affirmative. “_ Mrreerp!”

The moment he was freed, he pressed his face up into Clint’s hand, steering those clever fingers for his ears. _Oh..!_ His human was the absolute best roommate ever, and Bucky was never going to attack his string, again. He’d make coffee, and put away his toys, and even put up with letting Natalia come to movie night if it meant-

_Наталя Романова. Black Widow. Status: Compromised._

He froze, rigid beneath the light petting. Clint was meeting with Natalia. _Hawkeye_ was meeting with the _Black Widow_ about _work_. They were partners. How had he forgotten _that_?! She had _seen_ him. She had seen his _tags_! _‘No. No, no, no…’_

He was in Clint’s arms now, the human rubbing along the back of his neck, and damn if _cat brain_ wasn’t calming down with each pet. “Hey, buddy? You okay? ‘Cause I gotta head out.”

No, he certainly was not okay. Clint was his safe space; he always felt better with him here. Bucky didn’t want to panic, again. He didn’t want to dwell on the cold and the shots and the violence. Didn’t want to lose himself in watching the squirrels fighting on the window sill, or getting the soft high that came from his catnip toys. He didn’t _want_ Barton to go, and burrowed in against his henley, trying to convey that.

“Aww… I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can, buddy. Let’s make you a nice place, huh?”

That might help, a little. Bucky mewled in protest, but didn’t fight as Clint walked him up the stairs to the bedroom. His roommate made a nest of pillows in the center of the bed, putting a hoodie in the middle. With gentle hands, he tucked Bucky into the hoodie, one finger scritching under his chin. “We cool, Sarge?”

“Mrrp.”

“See you later, roomie. Stay outta trouble.”

Bucky watched him go, listened for the tell-tale squeak of the front door, the snap as the deadbolt slid home. He was alone. He curled further in on himself inside Clint’s sweatshirt, tail tucked over his nose. His human would be back soon.  He’d promised.


	16. Chapter 16

“I know, but I just feel so bad about lying to him.” He strained under the load in his arms. It wasn’t so heavy, but balancing the large case, a bag of office supplies, breakfast to go, and four cups of coffee was awkward as hell.

Natasha – bless her – rescued the coffee the moment the elevator doors slid closed. “You feel bad about lying to your cat?”

“Nat, at this point, I think we both know that whatever is in my apartment right now is not a cat. Even you suggested he might be some sort of mind swapped Hydra agent.”

“To be fair, I was grasping at straws with that one.”

“Yeah…” But that was before Sarge started being conscientious of Clint’s nightmares. Before he’d started using the toilet, and talking back and forth like they were having human conversations. Before Clint had realized that the cat – _the fucking cat!_ – could be embarrassed. He trailed behind her into the apartment. “So… what have we got?

“A deadline, and a lot of work ahead of us.” She was already unpinning her wig, finally back to red after having been a brunette when she’d picked him up. “ Phil has supervision of the teams looking into the Winter Soldier and Barnes, at least until the semi-annual review in May. After that, they could reassign someone, and then we’re on our own.”

“Great. Good thing I saved this.” He set the picofiche reader up on her kitchen table with a grin. The heavy plastic case might once have been drab, or olive, even tan, but it had faded to a sickly vomit beige. It looked hideous, but it came with so many memories. “Old school spy shit at its finest.”

“I can’t believe you _had_ one of these things. Let alone a portable one.”

“What, you thought we’d be going to the library?” Clint unhooked the ancient plastic while Natasha plugged in the cord. The nostalgic whistle of the CRT monitor made him smile. He hadn’t thought anyone would be pulling out the Bond level stuff anymore, but leave it to Phil to prove him wrong. That man deserved an edible arrangement, maybe even a balloon bouquet. Yeah, that would show the appropriate amount of gratitude, and sew the right amount of confusion over at the new SHIELD. “Let's hope this gets us something. Got the typewriter?”

She nodded, pulling the battered Smith Corona from the closet. His reader was analogue, while Nat’s typewriter was solely mechanical. They couldn’t risk the transcribed information leaking out of this room. The best way to do that to just avoid tech altogether. It was far easier to shred paper and a typewriter ribbon than worry about anyone catching wind of this.

“So, I’m thinking I’ll translate, you transcribe?” He was already setting up coffee and muffins in the middle of the dining table, Nat’s station – typewriter and paper, push-pins, clips, sticky notes – at one end, and his own – including the film reader, a notepad and pen, more sticky notes and pins, and two of the four cups of coffee – at the other. “We’ll have to pin to the board as we go; I can guarantee Phil put things out of order just to make it that much harder.”

“We have the board.” Natasha set the envelope on the table corner, pointing to the two-metre pin-board leaning against the wall, then reaching for a muffin. “Do you have string?”

“Do I have-? ‘Tasha, you _wound_ me!” He pulled the slightly tangled skein from the bag with a flourish. Clint made a show of waving it just in front of her face before placing it, as well as a small pair of scissors, with exaggerated care at the foot of the board. “What sort of Hawkeye would I be if I didn’t have the supplies for a stalker wall on hand?”

Unimpressed, Natasha silently finished her muffin before taking her seat and loading a sheet of paper into the typewriter. She resettled the items around her – making micro adjustments that Clint honestly couldn’t fathom – before she paused. Nat turned an almost accusatory glare on him as she asked. “Why are all the post-its dented?”

☆°•

Phil hadn’t just put everything in shorthand. He had written everything top to bottom and inverted. Without spaces. Once they were three hours in, any allure about rocking it old school had gone.

“Okay… so Steve’s vacation was to get him away from Tony and to return the vibranium arm, along with the few tissue samples that were positively identified as Barnes.” Clint pinched the bridge of his nose, looking to the other end of the table just as ‘Tasha pulled the half-sheet from the typewriter. “So where does that fit in?”

“Alright. One moment.” Natasha pinned the paper at chest height. She tied the end of the string to it, running that back to one of the many branches currently spiralling out from the centre page, which read only Barnes/Soldier in red permanent marker. “This is the same arm they impounded from a HYDRA lab under the Chester building two years ago.”

“Did I say anything about where the rest of him went?” They’d been going for over four hours by this point, and Clint was almost out of coffee. As good as his visual memory was, his brain had been doing too many permutations and translations for him to actually make sense of most of what he was saying. He could have just rambled off Jimmy Hoffa’s secret burial site; he wouldn’t have known any different.

“No. Nothing about that yet.” She traced a few other strings with a frown. “Though… had you heard anything about the Winter Soldier involving Howard Stark?”

“Yeah… One less secret to keep in the tower at least.” She pressed her lips thin as she looked at him, but Clint only shrugged. Natasha had her secrets, so did he. He’d been at SHIELD for almost a decade longer than she had; this was bound to happen once in a while. He took another sip from his current paper cup, shifting the picofiche forward to the next far-too-compressed page. “Keep reading?”

“Yeah.”

☆°•

“Clint? … Clint? … Hawkeye!”

He punched, palm flat, straight out in front of him, and pulled the blow only millimetres from Natasha’s face. She straightened to standing, hands still on her hips. He pulled away from the screen of the reader. There was a tingling as his cheek and forehead peeled off the monitor, and he heard a staticky pop and whistle as his partner turned it off. “Mmnyuh-yeah?”

“You need to eat. I’m getting take-away from _Baker’s Crust_.” She pushed him a bit more upright in the chair. After smoothing his hair down, Natasha gave his head a little pat, as if he were a child. “And mimosas so you don’t have to lie to your cat.”

She was such a good friend. “Alcohol makes it brunch.”

“Exactly. Do you want sprouts?”

“Can I have extra if I keep working while you’re gone?”

She gave him another indulgent smile as she opened the door. “Just don’t light anything on fire. I’ll be back in an hour.”

With a yawn, Clint stretched back over the chair, shoulders popping. He’d be slower, having to write down his translations instead of just dictating them to Natasha, but he could probably get a little more finished. On to the next page, then.

☆°•

He’d read the lines over dozens of times – checking for any possibility of a flaw in the code, a mistake in his translation – to the point that he could have recited both phrases from memory. The first: _‘Asset physiologically compromised in attempt at further enhancement. Keep in containment for further evaluation. New Designation: SNYEGOHVIK.’_ And the second: _‘Asset no longer contained. Retrieve by ANY MEANS NECESSARY.’_

He was gonna need to call Coulson. He couldn’t use his phone. Clint hadn’t planned on calling anyone, and there was no guarantee that any cell would have even been secure; maybe for most people, but he was trying to keep out of the many eyes of Tony Stark. He picked up his notes, reading through them one final time as he moved to sit at the bar.

Just like him, Natasha had a secured landline in every one of her apartments and safe houses. It might have been ISDN, but none of it went through a cellular signal. Outside of in person or a dead-drop, this was the most secure way he could get into contact with Phil right now. He’d just have to hope the combination of encryption and good old-fashioned bullshit would be enough. If he was right… There was a tremor in his hand, to the point that he just put the phone down and turned on the speaker as it rang. Clint still startled when the call connected. “Hey-! Hello, Phil?”

_“Clint. How are you? How’s that paperwork coming along? Natasha said you two were clearing up some things Captain Rogers misfiled.”_

“Well, it’s a lot to go over, Phil, and Steve’s an artist, so his penmanship is garbage, but I think we’ll be able to get this together and organized.”

_“It’s coming along well, then?”_

“It’ll be a shit-tonne of work, and I, for one, think I deserve a prize for this shit.” The report mentioned blood, and that Barnes’ DNA was on file. They might be able to use that as some way to test this connection. He’d take anything he could get, at this point. “Any chance I could order out that shortcake that you’ve got in the back freezer? ‘Tasha said it was good, and I wouldn’t mind a taste.”

 _“You have to order ahead, it’s not normally on the menu, but I’ll try to get you something when I’ve got time.”_ There was a sigh from the other end. He could practically see the other man running a hand down his face at his office upstate. _“Can't say as I'm too fond of it, but it’s definitely one of a kind.”_

“I hear ya … Hey, this might be weird question, but did I leave a mini fridge or something back at the old place last winter? Maybe a little chest freezer?” A cryogenic cat chamber, perhaps? How the hell had he wound up needing to ask about whether Hydra had tried to cryo-preserve his cat?

 _“You mean that half-finished thing you tried to rig up last minute?”_ There was the sound of shuffling papers, the squeak of wood on wood. Maybe a drawer? _“Yes, Clint, we kept it in storage, though I have no idea when you’d have an opportunity to use it. Or what you’d keep in it. It’s awfully small.”_

It was… Hydra had… He dropped his head into his hands, elbows on knees, willing the room not to tilt. Shit. Clint really wished that Nat was here right now. He took a slow breath in through his nose, voice chipper, with an edge that only someone that knew him from his days with Delta might have recognized. “Yeah, sorry, just a thought. All this paperwork is kinda getting to me. Ya know how it is.”

_“That I do… How much do you have finished?”_

“Phil, I gotta be honest with you…” This was it. He'd have to admit it could all be true, if he told Coulson. “… aside from that final addendum that Steve filed last year, I believe we may have gotten all of it. It’s going to take a lotta work to get it in order.”

Even through the phone, even without having his tactical BTEs on, the line was quiet enough that he could hear Phil’s breathing. The time dragged out, seconds running together, until Phil finally responded. His voice was quiet, and disturbingly even. _“You’re sure, Hawkeye? You really shouldn’t take on other people’s work so much.”_

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, Phil.” The latch was turning, and it would be better if they cut this now. Phil didn’t need to know any more right now – it was safer for all of them if he had some deniability, just in case this whole thing turned out to be a hoax. Or, you know, went ass up and resulted with Clint dead in a ditch somewhere – and Clint desperately needed to hash this out with his partner. “I’ll give your love to Widow; she just got back with lunch.” He hung up before Coulson had time to answer.

“What was that about?” Natasha had already set the food down in the kitchen, along with two sealed drinks.

Clint reached for the closest, peeling the lid off and tipping it back in a series of frantic gulps, the alcoholic carbonation burning and pressing its way down his throat. Finished, he set the cup down and ran a hand through his hair. When he finally met her gaze, his partner looked almost as bewildered as he felt. “‘Tasha, this is where the weird starts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mimosas and Bloody Mary's seem to be the go-to brunch drinks in the U.S. They are not fun to chug. Clint is going to burp, and have that awful orange juice aftertaste.
> 
> I had to reuse the weird line. I just had to...
> 
> I'm travelling this weekend, but I hope to have another chapter when I can. Work and school are a bit much right now. Thank you for your understanding.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a much longer than normal chapter... The first half is this chapter, the second half is chapter 18. Thanks for your patience in waiting a full two weeks for an update!

When he'd come out of the ice, Steve's first real debrief had been about that mission, confirming SSR, now SHIELD assumptions: Hydra had been creating tesseract powered weapons, imbuing them with energy siphoned from the cube. He’d described them as having a blue glow, similar to the LEDs that lit her Widow Bites; smelling like machine oil, but with a colour that she’d later seen reflected in Hawkeye’s stare. Although the tesseract itself had long since been recovered, and was currently off world, there had always been concerns that somehow, somewhere, Hydra might have kept some of – as Rogers called it – ‘the blue stuff’ in storage, waiting to be used in some future endeavour.

With SHIELD heavily infiltrated, however, there'd been no need. Hydra had been able to sit on whatever stock of the stuff they had left for decades, right up until both SHIELD and Hydra had imploded in on themselves two years prior. The revelation of how deep the infiltration ran had sent both organizations scrambling for contingency plans, whether good, bad, or absolutely insane. Given the current wall of evidence before them, it seemed using seventy-year old magic imbued hydraulic fluid on a century-old, semi-mechanized super-soldier had been well within the realm of Hydra-level insanity.

“So… physiologically compromised means they _made_ him a cat?” Natasha shook her head, watching as Clint moved another of their notes to a different section of pin board. It sounded ridiculous, but she might have said the same thing about backing up a human mind on a collection of data tapes not too long ago. Still, parts of it just didn’t seem sensible, even by Hydra standards. “Why a cat, though?”

“I don't think he was supposed to be one. Maybe they just wanted the Soldier - or, they called him the _Asset_ \- to be magic? Science magic?” From his position on the floor, her partner shrugged, hands folded on his lap. “I mean think about the danger level of someone like Steve, without morals, totally controllable, and also with magic like Loki.”

“I'd rather not.” That was a disturbing thought. Especially considering that this _thing_ that Hydra had created had been living with Clint for months; nearly a year, at this point. She hadn’t noticed any changes in his behaviour – aside from those that might be expected when taking ownership of a new pet – though she had been taking quite a few away missions on her own.

Natasha knelt beside him, reaching one hand over to grip beneath Clint’s chin, the other palming a thin blade against his neck as she tugged his face in close. His eyes were blue, yes, but held no glow or iridescence at the edges. He made no move to pull away, nor to attack her as she asked, “Has he used it on you?”

“I… I don’t think he can.” Clint fidgeted, lips pressing forward in a slight pout as he shook his head, and she released him. “I mean, if Sarge is this Asset or Barnes or whatever, Hydra fucked up. He can barely figure out how to cat right, and he’d make a piss poor spy at the moment. He lost a fight with the string before I got here.”

“Nothing that feels like the tesseract, Clint?”

“His eyes do glow a little blue at night, but nothing otherwise.” He shook his head, checking off the list they’d been over before, years ago, when she’d still been worried she’d not punched him hard enough. “No voices in my head, no unexplained lost time, no shivers in warm rooms… No insomnia – well, not more than _usual_ – no waking up in countries I didn’t fall asleep in – except, you know, when we’re flying – and no urges to betray everyone I love… Though…” He ducked in close, voice low, with just an edge of worry. “I did catch myself eating meow-mix instead of cereal last week?”

She wasn’t sure whether the joke was more for her or himself, but Natasha knew that it at least meant Clint was in control of his own head. “I think that just means you tried to get breakfast before caffeine or ten a.m. Too early for you.”

“Speaking of early, though; it’s getting late. I should be heading home soon. I told Sarge I’d be back in time for movie night, and he’s… gonna worry…”

“You're not going back there alone.” Standing, herself, she helped him up off of the floor, immediately pulling him into a real hug. Natasha knew he could more than handle himself. She didn’t need him trying to comfort her with jokes, no matter that there was genuine affection behind them. Love was for children, but fear and caution kept you alive. The Winter Soldier was something to be feared, of that Natasha had no doubt. She remembered well the silent, barely-human man who’d sometimes appeared in the Red Room, dead-eyes staring back at them from an ageless, muzzled face. Just the thought that even a part – even the smallest sliver – of _that_ might be waiting for Clint at home was too much right now. She had seen exactly what the Winter Soldier could do; up close and personally.

Clint sighed against the top of her head, strong arms wrapping her shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, no. I wasn't planning on it.” When he leaned away, his eyes were downcast, sheepish. “Just forgot for a minute. That he’s not, ya know, just a really  smart cat…”

“He’s not, Clint. You’ve said as much.” She tapped a finger against the inside of his arm. Stepping out of the hug, Natasha crossed back to their pin board, tracing the strings that connected James Barnes to Zola and the Winter Solder, and back through Sarge to Clint. Had they only found the Winter Soldier – or should she really start trying to think of him as Sergeant Barnes? – the right action would have been to call everyone available, overwhelm him with numbers, and work to get everyone alive through the ordeal. Now, though, they were dealing with another set of possibilities, the best of which was that they might be wrong. “He’s something else, and I don’t like not knowing the limits of what that is.”

“True, though, whatever he is, I have to wonder…” Clint reach down for his cup, taking a slow sip of his long-cold coffee. Emptying it, he stepped behind her and tapped at the various sketches and notes that circled the star-and-shield doodle they’d used to represent Steve. “File said Barnes and Steve were like family, and the Winter Soldier had Cap as his target before the whole _no longer contained_ thing, right? So why did Winter Kitten decide to come home with _me_?”

Natasha tilted her head in thought, eyes working back along their notes, from the little doodle of a cat standing in for Sarge, out to Clint’s purple chevron at the very edge of the web. Most of the team was on there, though some – Tony and Steve, and also herself – had much more obvious direct connections to the only man listed on the board twice. Sam was connected through Steve, and Bruce was a degree off from the Captain and the Soldier, and even Fury and Coulson had made it up onto the board because they’d been at the base where the tiny cryo chamber and arm had been found. Clint had gone so far as to put Peggy Carter on there for good measure, shoving her in between Barnes, Rogers, and Stark; she’d been one of the only hits the Soldier had refused, before Hydra had gotten full control of him. There were so many contacts and connections and _people_ that the whole thing had become a riot of string and stickies, but there was little apparent a pattern to it. Natasha knew that she would see it, if she could just figure out the proper approach…

She blinked. It was obvious. Natasha tapped her nail against the purple _Hawkeye_ chevron, doodled on a napkin and pinned in the uppermost corner. “You’re an easy access point.”

“Come, again?” Anyone who didn’t know Clint Barton would have thought he was only a bit confused. Natasha knew better. The slight crease between his eyes and pulled up lip told her she might have done a better job in phrasing that; Clint was pissed, or at least insulted, over what she’d just said.

“Not from the standpoint of most people, but even then…” Natasha looked down at her own note, a tiny red hourglass pinned slightly closer to the centre of the web, but still very near Clint’s. Her answering smile was lopsided, almost bittersweet. “You have a habit of picking up strays.”

“I do not- You can’t count the _dog_ , Natasha! That was for work.”

She flicked the end of his nose, smirking up at his crossed eyes. “Me.”

“Also basically for work, Nat, and you took a lot more effort than the ca-”

She cut him off, counting down the rest of the list on her fingers as she spoke. “Wanda. Kate. Everyone who lives in your building.”

“Natasha…” He stepped back further, eyes drifting between her and the board as he sighed. “Come on. It’s not… He couldn’t have _known_ I would just take in a stray cat.”

“Maybe not, but you’re approachable.” Despite being one of only two trained killers on the team – Steve and Thor were soldiers and warriors, but they didn’t _assassinate_ people – Clint easily came across as the most affable, down-to-earth person in the tower. He had his hang-ups, certainly; the veritable laundry list of Barton’s issues would have made most people’s heads spin, but they weren’t obvious, and they didn’t make him harder get to. Tony was controlling, eccentric, justifiably more than a bit of a hypochondriac, and stopped working only when he collapsed or got dragged out by Ms. Potts. Steve, when he wasn’t doing his best to be mister-team-player, was prone to lashing out and depression, rarely slept, and spent enough time on missions that she honestly thought he was _trying_ to get himself marked down as KIA, again, despite her efforts. Bruce was actually the most well-balanced person with whom they worked, but his history meant people kept their distance, and he preferred his solitude, anyway.

To add to the problem, with the exception of Clint and herself, most of the Avengers were difficult to catch up to, and harder to access. It took effort to schedule time with them, to the point that meetings with even the core team at one site were difficult for JARVIS or FRIDAY to organize, let alone a possibility for a mind-altered murderer inside the body of a stray cat. By comparison, Clint – listed as C. Barton, of which there were just over eighty in proper age range within the city – was in the white-pages.  He wore his own gear in public and ate from food stands. Though it had only presented issues a handful of times, Hawkeye was dangerously easy to both find and access. “Your face is out there – anyone who took the time to actually look would have a simple time finding you – but you’re not constantly hounded like Steve and Tony, who he is probably avoiding, all things considered. You’re not usually in a government office – that cuts Rhodey, Coulson and Fury, maybe even Sam – and you’re one of the shortest direct links to Steve. You even _filled in_ for him when he was gone last year-”

“Please don’t remind me; my wrist still twinges thinking about that, ‘Tasha. Most of that applies to you, and you already _owned_ a cat.” He rocked on his heals, head tilted to the side, considering. “We were both at that facility, and you were outed as SHIELD the same way I was when that all went to shit.”

“Clint, the Winter Soldier and I have some... history.” Clint knew; she’d told him more than she’d told Phil. It was, however, still slightly sanitized. He knew she’d _met_ the Winter Soldier, and that he’d been there when she learned how to shoot. Barton didn’t know staying alive while he hunted them each in turn had been one of the final _exams_ to which the Red Room had subjected its recruits, or how many of them had failed. “I thought it was because he didn’t like the smell of Liho, but he may have been reacting to _me_. He might have seen me as a threat.”

“He’s kind of – I dunno – overprotective of me? Like, he sometimes hisses at people when they get close when we’re walking…”

“Hmm.” None of the notes on Hydra’s asset had mentioned conditioning to a specific handler. The whole endeavour seemed to have been to create a weapon, to be used as necessary by anyone within the organization who could properly activate him. It had been startling, just how easily the Winter Soldier could be controlled. A dozen odd code words, a picture, a simple set of commands, and, in theory, anyone could set the White Wolf hunting.

Whatever else might have happened, it seemed that either the cat or – if part of him beyond the recognition of rank was still in there – Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes had asserted himself enough to _prefer_ something, all on his own. Natalia recalled little personal freedom from her time before SHIELD had recruited her. Compared to the man she still remembered stalking her like a machine, however, she had been wholly untethered. Even with her wrist chained nightly to the bed – told when to sit or stand, when to kill, when to breath, even then – she had the freedom of her own mind; hemmed by possibility and privation, but still a tiny space in which she was capable of rebellion.

According to what she and Clint had learned, the Asset had no such respite, should not have been capable of exerting any kind of will. Shouldn’t have even had the awareness to recognize that lack of autonomy, if he had been properly maintained. _Maintained; as if he were only a thing._ It was a revolting thought, but it also offered the possibility that, maybe, there was some piece of something human in Sergeant. There were very specific maintenance and upkeep protocols for the Winter Soldier. Protocols that had not been carried out, as near as anyone could tell, since Hydra had lost custody of him two years ago.

Clint had gone over the specifics of the chair – such a benign name for something designed to unmake a man – and Hydra’s regular schedule for using it. Clearly, the repeated wiping meant that, even after seven decades, the organization hadn’t been able to permanently overwrite all of James Barnes. There had been no cat-sized chair, no way to wipe a feline brain without risk of permanently scrambling it beyond use. Who could say how much of the man he’d first been might have resurfaced, after two years without tampering? Perhaps enough for them to want to keep him alive, at least. Natasha crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall beside the web of connections. “So, how do we want to do this?”

“You're asking me?”

“Well, he's been living with you for close to a year.” She tapped the Clint-napkin again. “You’re the only one that had regular contact with him, so, how do we proceed?”

Her partner dropped his head into his palms. His next exhalation was heavy, even as he ran his hands back over his head, mussing his hair and stretching out over the back of the couch. Clint kept his eyes focused somewhere on the ceiling as he spoke. “If he is the Winter Soldier, he's not showing it. I'm not sure if we'll have a better reaction if we go in assuming he is Bucky Barnes, but that seems to be our best bet. At least, he hasn’t reacted badly to ‘ _Sergeant_ ,’ and we can assume no one at Hydra was calling him that.”

“He definitely hates that new code name, even if it does tend to work getting him to do things…” Barton lifted his head, eyes flicking momentarily to the board, again – it had been helpful having everything laid out visually – before looking back at her. “Or, it did. He's kind of been getting immune to it over the last couple of months.”

The risk-reward balance for keeping Sergeant alive shifted, again. If newer _programming –_ Hydra’s terminology; a less messy way of saying _mental torture_ – hadn’t stuck, even for the relatively short time he’d been with Clint, perhaps older Hydra training might fade further still. “Assuming that James Barnes is still in there, how do we make sure he's the only one that comes out?”

Clint was still focused in her direction, but it felt more like he was looking past her, seeing through her to something on the other side. It was the same faraway look he got just before plans tended to fall apart, before tenth order contingencies blew up in their faces. He blinked and actually focused back on her face. “Do we?”

“Pardon?”

Standing, Clint tapped the picture put up to represent Sergeant from the board, a hand-drawn cat face with a little frown. He unpinned the sticky-note doodle, turned it once in his hands, then passed it back to her with a sullen nod. “He’s cat-sized; we don’t know if or when that might wear off, right? We might just want to go ahead and see if we can’t – what was the phrasing? - activate him.”

She swallowed. Setting the note down on the arm of the couch, she stepped up into Clint’s space, again, leaning into his side, arms resting around his waist. Natasha knew he was right, absolutely so, and there was only so much a cat could actually do, so long as he _stayed_ a cat, but… She would probably have nightmares, tonight; ones she’d not had in a long, dark while. “It might reset him, entirely.”

“Yeah…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are 87 C. Bartons between 30-40 years old in the white pages when I search online in New York, NY. So, you know, not too hard to find.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the very long chapter that was just too long. Now from Clint's perspective.

“Yeah… I know.” He nodded, pulling her into a real hug for just a moment. Natasha was, if not scared, pretty damn upset over this to be so touchy today. Which, admittedly, he was, too. Clint had known, at least since the first month or so, that his cat was more than strange, but… it had been nice having another friend around. He was quite aware Sergeant wasn’t normal, but he’d never imagined Sarge might be some kind of defrosted murder bot.

Still they had to know. He and Natasha had both read the files; the Soldier’s last mission assignment had been laid out within them, and they could not let him complete it. They had to get a handle on his capabilities, and determine what means he might have for reaching and harming – possibly killing – Steve. That was the Asset’s end goal; Clint rankled at that knowledge, but had to accept that _he_ might have helped get the potential Hydra sleeper-agent that much closer to achieving it.

He walked Natasha over to the sofa, and sat them both down, releasing his hold on her shoulders to grasp her hands. The sinking feeling in his stomach wormed its way up into his throat, but he forced it back down. Hawkeye, and Clint Barton, had both done far worse than what he was contemplating, to people – non-Hydra, non-murderous, _human_ people _–_ who had trusted him just as much. Possibly more. “Would you suggest we just handle this quietly?”

“No. No, we have to at least figure out if or what he knows.” She shook her head, hair whisping across her face, bent forward enough that the movement hid her eyes behind a curtain of red as she spoke. “Even if he were to become violent, he’s been intelligent enough to interact with you in a way we’d expect from a human. We can’t assume he doesn’t know anything. We’ve lost too many resources recently to let him go without trying to get at what might be inside his head.”

“Agreed.” It was a sound assessment, and one they could work with. Killing Sergeant would have been the simplest solution, but, from a logistical perspective, it would have been a total waste, regardless of whether or not there was anyone worth reaching inside the cat’s mind. Too much effort – his, Nat’s, Steve and Tony’s, and absolutely Phil’s – had been spent on this to just sweep it under the rug without trying glean some kind of information from his roommate. While it could provide some much-needed information, it was also a comfort as well; he relaxed just a bit, knowing he would not have to disappear his own cat.

Taking a deep breath, Clint released her hands. He stood, finally taking a moment to work out his lower back, soft cracks loud in his ears. Only now did he realize they’d been whispering that entire time. He had been matching his partner’s volume out of habit, and, while Natasha might speak softly, whispers were for missions.

Clint’s eyes traced over the string lines, again, watching the red tangling all of them together around the two men and the cat – the one _person_? – at the centre of this whole debacle. Even after re- and re- and _re-_ reviewing his notes, after the call to Phil, after the subsequent hours with Nat, this all felt unbelievable. Possible – he'd seen enough unspeakable shit to know that this was well within the realm of _possible_ – but still hard as hell to believe.

Sergeant understood him. Talked to him. Comforted him and apologized to him and fucking made _coffee_ for him. There was – _there had to be_ – something of the real Bucky Barnes still inside that cat’s head. The Winter Soldier, nightmare that he was, was not known for his friendly service and good conversation skills; nor was the average large house-cat exactly known for its humility or general understanding of kitchen equipment. Of course, Hydra’s asset _was_ in there; knowing what he now did, Clint was sure of that. It certainly explained Sarge’s history of random attacks, his frenzies of destruction to the point of self-injury that went far beyond any normal cat Clint had ever known, perhaps even his strangely aggressive protective urges. But Sarge wasn’t _only_ the Soldier, and that counted for something, didn’t it? If Bucky Barnes was really in there with him, though, he probably wasn’t exactly alright.

Both Clint and Nat had been on the receiving end of some of Hydra’s tamer interrogation methods. The files had said that Barnes had fought most of the attempts to program him – at least as long as he _could_ fight them – and any normal guy that could both keep up and put up with Steve Rogers was certifiably a hard-ass, if probably a little out of his gourd. The SSR files on him said he’d already gone a round with Hydra before he died – _dead_ seemed to be old SSR code for _missing, too much damn trouble_ – so it only made sense that he’d try to keep making trouble for them once they got him back the second time. That took bravery, or a whole shit-tonne of stupid; Clint had to admire that. Though, even if Bucky Barnes was in there, this whole thing might still go _FUBAR_ , and devolve into something far worse. Seventy odd years of having his head screwed with could mean that the only pieces of Barnes that remained were nuts, anyway.

Still, whatever came of it, Hawkeye and Black Widow would handle it. Strike Team Delta had always been the ones called in when situations went sideways; some things never changed.

This was just another mission; that’s what he would have to tell himself for the duration. Especially if those Hydra files had been right. Sergeant – could Clint even call him that, anymore? – would have to be contained for this to work, though, and, despite being much larger than his cat, Clint had found him rather difficult to corral safely. All of his incapacitating weaponry was designed for things that were, at a minimum, of human strength and toughness. He had nothing for animals, aside from two leashes and a very mangled cat crate. There had to be some way, without hurting him, but also without alerting the cat to their intentions. “I’ve got an idea.”

From her position on the sofa, Natasha finally looked out through her hair, tucking it behind her ear as she straightened. “One you’re going to share with me this time?”

“Maybe.” Clint fought not to roll his eyes at her, but he couldn’t keep the tiny smirk – shit-eating and rueful – from tugging at his lips. It wasn’t the _worst_ of plans, but it was hardly a fool-proof strategy. Sarge clearly had a messed-up metabolism – cats weren’t supposed to be able to even _have_ coffee, and the cat drank nearly as much ounce for ounce for his size as Clint did for himself – and, they could now confirm, he also had at least a human level of intelligence. Possibly super-human; the notes on all that the knock-off serum had done to Bucky Barnes hadn’t been among what Phil and SHIELD had recovered.

With that in mind, he would have to assume that the Winter Kitten back in his apartment had a constitution halfway between Steve _Awake for Surgery_ Rogers and a normal cat. Which also meant that crushing up some diphenhydramine in tuna probably wasn’t going to work in this situation. Still, that didn’t mean they were entirely out of options. “Depends.” He didn’t like it, but they’d have to do it, anyway. “Do you still have the cover ID as a vet-tech in Queens?”

☆°•

Clint cracked the door open to the apartment, carefully lifting the handle to keep the hinges from squeaking. When he finally caught sight of Sergeant, Clint couldn’t help the momentary smile that stretched his face, nor the sinking nausea that settled into his gut. They were really going to do this. They needed to, but right now? “‘Tasha… I just… can we do work another night?”

“Clint are you serious?” Her whisper was close enough to his ear that he knew she was on tiptoe behind him.

Slipping the door almost closed, again, he turned back to her. “It’s just that it’s been fun, having him around, and if this is going to make him go crazy, well… It’s movie night. Couldn’t we just let him enjoy it? I was planning to invite you anyway, when you got back.”

He knew he was fidgeting, squirming in the glare of Nat’s incredulity, but this time, it might be worth it. “How about we start the setup tonight, then roll tomorrow? It’ll give us a few hours of sleep – because I know you haven’t stopped since you saw Phil yesterday – we’ll both be at one-hundred percent and start fresh in the morning. That way, if we have to… if anything becomes too dangerous for civilians, there will be fewer in the building.”

Natasha’s frown softened, just a bit, into something distinctly pitying. “We could always start the administration tonight, then re-dose him in the morning.”

“Alright. Yeah…” He had one more night with his little fluff-buddy. It didn’t seem like enough – this whole plan still felt like a betrayal after everything that Sergeant had been with him through – but it was all he could manage. “Yeah, c’mon.”

When he opened the door, again, the cat was no longer on the counter. Clint scanned the room, relieved when he saw that the cat was in one of his favourite stalking spots. “Aww... kitty... Nat, watch.”

Sergeant – who, yes, might _actually_ be the Winter Soldier – was poised on top of the refrigerator, head down, haunches up, gaze focused on the floor. There, a few yards from his perch, sat his battered scratching circle, painted purple target wearing down from overuse. The cat tilted his head – one ear flicking, rump giving a wiggle – and pounced! Sarge landed dead centre on the bullseye with a loud _‘Nyeen!’_ He proceeded to roll onto his back, pulling the target with him and batting it around a few moments.

Clint could tell the instant Sergeant noticed them. The cat looked quickly between them and the target, then kicked it away. With a graceful roll to his feet, he padded over to greet them.

“Mweee?” Or, more correctly, his roommate proceeded to ignore Natasha and greet him. The cat twined around his legs, face pressing in against his ankles. After a few such turns, he sat back on his haunches, waiting for a pet.

“Yes, much better than attacking my office supplies.” Clint scritched just behind his right shoulder, careful to hit the spot he knew the cat couldn’t reach without an arm on the opposite side. “Missed you, too, buddy.”

It was difficult to push down the choked-off edge to his words, to ignore how much this physically hurt. It was only natural. Sergeant had been living with him for nine months; of course, he was going to get attached to the fluffy little murderer. The revelation that his big, grumpy-puff of a cat might be sharing his brain with a century old assassin didn’t change that. Sergeant tangled himself once more around his legs, then, startlingly, turned to Natasha. Very deliberately, the cat walked over, stopping so that he almost touched her leg.

“Sergeant.”

“Mrou.” He lowered his head, nosing the leg of her pants before looking up at her, little pink nose wrinkling. His cat roommate butted into Natasha’s leg, again, head hanging, then looked up to meet her gaze. “Mreep?”

“Apology accepted, but I don’t want cat hair on my pants.” Natasha knelt down, hand out for him to sniff.

Foregoing typical cat behaviour – which, yes, Clint now realized was not something that Sarge had ever displayed on a regular basis – he walked right into Natasha’s hand, nose pressed to the crease of thumb and palm. “Mrrp.”

Having said his piece, Sergeant sat back down at his feet, looking expectantly from Clint to the bags in his arms.

Clint set the bags on the counter. The office supplies weren’t really important any more. He tugged out the snacks he had grabbed while Nat filled her scrips – fish jerky and a few frozen pizzas – before beginning to dig through the cupboards. “So… who wants chips?”

☆°•

They wound up half-huddled together on Clint’s barely-still-a couch eating chips and jerky while the pizzas baked. Or, more accurately, he and Natasha ate chips – a mixture of mustard and caramelized onion flavours that proved he really _had_ planned to invite her over – while Sarge gnawed on pieces of salmon jerky. His partner had wedged up under one of his arms, while the cat had sprawled in his lap.

He’d made a Red Russian for Nat – “Still not funny, Barton,” – and grabbed himself a beer, pouring some out into a little dish for Sarge, too. The cat had just walked onto Clint’s knee to dip his paw into said dish. It was a strange way to drink, but as long as his roommate was enjoying his beer, Clint really didn’t mind. They were about halfway through the film, and the cat had already twice emptied his little bowl.

“Want a refill, buddy?”

“Nrrng.” Sarge gave his head the barest of shakes, then lapped the beer off his paw before going in for a second dip. When the cat finished, wiping his paw off on Clint’s jeans, Sergeant retook his position in across his lap. After a few moments, the cat yawned, big fluffy head shoving into one side his sweatshirt pocket before Sarge tried to paw his way underneath. As soon as he lifted the edge of his shirt, Sergeant slipped into it and curled up against his midsection, head butting momentarily into Clint’s abs before he curled up beneath the heavy knit fabric. Little guy was getting tired…

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** give your cats beer. **No Beer, No Coffee:** Buckitty is a ridiculous half-super soldier, science-magic Hydra asset cat. This is a work of fanfiction where secret Nazi's turned a a guy from Brooklyn into a cyborg super-soldier... and then into a cat. Do not follow this story's advice on proper diets for your cats.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the feedback of people worried over Buckitty and about how sweet of a guy Clint is might make this a hard chapter for some of you to read. There's some description of blood. I have also reformatted the dialogue for one of the characters (finally sat down and fiddled with the HTML in another fic, so I thought to update it here.) I will go back and reformat the other chapters when I can.
> 
> Thank you for hanging with me so long, and for your patience and support throughout. You guys are awesome!

Bucky woke up slowly, for some reason still groggy from the night before. Although most of his memory was – to be polite about it – pretty fucking muddled, he couldn't remember ever having gotten so dozy from drinking. The only thing similar had been during his time at the beginning, when they had started the enhancements. When his arm had still been partially his own. Before he learned to act accordingly, to follow his handlers’ instructions, they had used a variety of methods to force him – physical, psychological, and chemical – but… no.

No. Clint wouldn't do anything like that. Maybe cats got hangovers more easily; that, combined with not sleeping in a bed, would more than explain how stiff and groggy he was this morning. Stretching up off the couch – his human should have made Natalia sleep down here; he and Clint needed a proper bed, after all – he slipped down onto the floor, tripping a bit. Yeah; he couldn’t handle his beer as well as he’d thought.

Careful of his steps, Bucky padded into the kitchen, snuggling in against Clint’s leg. He could smell the coffee, and it was wonderful. He hazarded a jump onto the countertop, skidding and knocking into a stack of coupons. He couldn’t help checking to see if he’d gone unnoticed; Clint’s smirk told him that was not the case.

“Morning, Sarge. Coffee?” His human already had the pot in hand. He tipped it forward, letting Bucky take a long whiff. It smelled good! Ridiculously good. He remembered this scent, sort of nostalgic…

Clint poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a little sugar – maybe it was for Natasha; had he ever sweetened his? He didn’t think so – then poured off a little bit into the small mug. His roommate set it on the counter for Bucky, who couldn’t help glancing up at him before giving it a curious sniff. It smelled like – _‘You seen my newspaper?’ – ‘Oh, yeah, thanks ma!’ – ‘Bundled up and still gettin’ sick…’ – ‘Ain’t you never wanted to just get out an’ go?’ – ‘Real sorry, officer; just a little scrap was all.’ – ‘That wudn’t yours to give, Becca!’ – ‘Where are those asthma cigs? Here, breathe, stupid!’_ – home. It was coffee and something else. It was a memory.

He blinked back up at Clint, who made a go-on motion with a little half smile. Nose hovering over the tiny mug, he gave the drink a tentative lap. The coffee was perfect! Perfect and purr-worthy, and Bucky hadn't realized he could drink and purr at once until just now. Calloused fingers scratched behind his ears as he lapped. _Fuck, that’s nice!_ Mornings didn't get better than this.

The coffee was gone far too quickly, and Bucky whined, butting his head up into Clint’s hand. His human smiled – a little strangely. Indulgent, maybe? Clint’s eyes were almost sad, now that he looked – and poured a second cup. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had coffee like this. He knew he should, and was trying to, but the memory flitted away from Bucky, carried on the sounds of streetcars and sneezes and someone running clothes through a mangler.

His roommate kept lightly petting his head, slowly sipping his own coffee as he leaned against the counter. Maybe it was the late night of movies – which must have been longer than he thought, if he fell asleep partway through – or perhaps it was the steady rub of his human’s fingers, now scratching down between his shoulder blades. Whatever the case, Bucky found himself feeling more relaxed this morning that he had in quite some time, even if he could hear Natalia padding around upstairs.

He lifted his head long enough to nuzzle into Clint’s palm before getting back to his little breakfast treat. “Good stuff?”

“Mreereep!” _So good!_ Best coffee in the world, made by the best human in the world, that’s what this was. Bucky leaned in to place a tiny, grateful lick against the back of Clint’s hand, steady purr thrumming through him as he went back to finish the last few laps of the warm drink.

“Chicory coffee with two sugars, just like you like it.” Clint lifted his own cup in a little salute as he leaned back. “Right, Sergeant Barnes?”

 _Right._ Clint – his sweet, handsome, thoughtful human. Oh; he might kiss this man if he had lips! – was right, this was absolutely perfect… perf… per… Bucky whipped his head up to look at his roommate, who didn't even flinch as the tiny cup tipped over, spilling the last dreg of his coffee to dribble across the counter.

Clint was watching him intently, mug to his lips, vambraced arm resting on the counter and- Clint was armed! The small hip quiver peeked out from beneath his hoodie, the bow balanced casually between his knee and the cabinet. He looked calm, but awake. Far more awake than he should have been after having only just started in on his first cup coffee.

Clint leaned in a little bit closer. Not enough to loom, really, but close enough to box him in between some storage jars and a messy pile of fletching supplies. “Which is funny, ‘cause cats don’t really taste sugar...”

Bucky took a step back, stiffening when the barest movement set the hairs of his tail on end. “Are you alright, James?” He spun, tail flicking out, paws scrabbling a bit for purchase against the smooth formica. He wasn’t just relaxed; he was dizzy! Why was he fucking dizzy?

He tipped his gaze up to find sharp green eyes looking down at him, cold above a smile that could have cut diamond. He hadn’t even noticed Natalia come down the stairs, and now she had blocked his only exit. “Are you _alright,_ James?”

No. No that wasn’t what they called him, he was – _“James Buchanan Barnes, you had better not be cut up in there!” T HE ASSET HAS RETURNED FOR RESET AND EVALUATION._ – He’d not heard that name since – _“We hope you will be more cooperative in the future, Sergeant Barnes…_ – He was Sarge. They knew he was Sarge, and…

They knew… They _knew!_ Fuckin’ shit, they knew! Nobody could know! _T HE ASSET WILL ELIMINATE ALL WITNESSES ._ Because, if anyone ever found him, they were gonna… gonna–

“Sarge? Sergeant Barnes? Bucky?!” He snapped still, frozen in place. Nobody had called him Bucky since he fell. Since Stevie. He needed Clint to get him to Stevie – had he become so complacent that he’d forgotten that? – but now Barton knew who he was. Bucky swivelled his head, staring back at Clint, whose face was edging toward wide-eyed shock.

“Hey, hey… Bucky? It’s alright. We’re, uh… We’re not gonna hurt ya, okay?” His roommate’s hands were palm up, his tone oddly placating, even as he stepped in closer, truly hemming Bucky in place. “Me ‘n’ Nat are just trying to figure out how this whole thing happened, yeah?”

No. No matter what his human might be saying, this was _not_ okay. The two had him cornered; nothing was _okay_ about any of this! They could reset him, lock him back in the cold – _Clint wouldn’t do that, would he?_ – put him back on the street, or- Shit! That… That was thinking small.

With his head tilted, he could see that Natalia was armed as well; had come down in her tactical gear, in fact. He wasn’t up against his roommate and the guy’s friend. Hawkeye and the Black Widow had him cornered inside an otherwise empty apartment building, and he stood less than two feet of the ground.

He was well and truly fuc- No! There was always an exit. There was a way out of this; he would EXTRACT himself. Hawkeye in front. Black Widow behind. He had to DISENGAGE AND REGROUP. There had to be something that could work in the mess of the rest of the counter: fletching, coupons, coffee canisters, pizza boxes, bag of sugar- _C ONFIRM EXIT STRATEGY_.

Bucky spun, charging the foot of space toward the woman behind him, only to feint and slam into the sugar, claws rending the paper to send a swirl of white flying into the air, creating a minor visual camouflage. Scrambling down the counter, he reached the edge, preparing to leap- until his legs tangled at the edge, dooming him to falling right into his roommate’s hands. Clint was picking him up! No; worse! Clint was trying to hold on to him. Trying to keep him from escaping, and – _A SSET COMPROMISED_ – from safety! _R ETURN FOR DEBRIEF AND RESET_.

Using his tail for leverage, Bucky flailed, spine torqueing wildly, trying to claw against Clint’s skin, but catching only arm bracers and – when his back feet hit the man’s torso – sweatshirt over and Kevlar. His roommate had the uniform on beneath his clothes! What little purchase he could get only succeeded in shredding up the heavy jersey knit, but left the man uninjured.

“Sarge!” Barton – _Bastard fucking traitor! E NEMY COMBATANT_ – had him fully in the air right now, holding him at arm’s length and facing away from him. Fucker was trying to be placating, as if he didn’t know Bucky was going to murder him, him and Natalia – _M ULTIPLE ENEMY COMBATANTS_ – right here in this kitchen! “Seargeant, c’mon buddy, we don’t want to hurt you, but we need to talk.”

“Nreeengeeeeeeeen!!” It was a half jack-knife, backwards, that finally freed him, his skull knocking hard just against the inside of Clint’s elbow. The momentary spasm in his roommate’s hand gave Bucky just the tiniest bit of leeway to squirm free. He tumbled, half-bouncing off counter and a dining chair before he finally landed in a disoriented heap on the floor. With the little coordination he still had – panic should _not_ have been making this so difficult – Bucky scrambled for the safe haven of the space beneath the couch.

His legs weren’t responding properly – _A SSET COMPRIMISED. EVALUATE DAMAGE_ – the front giving out as the back ones kept moving, causing him to slide across the floor. He managed to get just his head and shoulders beneath the safety of the fabric covered overhang before he was caught up, again, in strong hands. Bucky clawed into the wood as best he was able, leaving a feeble set of scratches along the worn planks before he was once again in Clint’s arms.

With his body slowly slipping out of his control – _Why?_ – he was left to be man-handled into his roommate’s lap as the man took a seat in the dining chair. The world spun for a moment, room swirling like the skyline had after he’d come off the Cyclone, and he slumped momentarily in his roommate’s hold. _A SSET SEVERELY COMPROMISED. INITIATE ASSET SELF-TERMINATION?_

Hawkeye was talking, now; not to him, and not anything that made sense in his addled brain, the man’s voice showing his agitation. “Fuck! Thought you said that stuff would take him down faster than the other, Nat.”

“It would have if he wasn’t an enhanced enemy agent. Hawkeye? Should I-”

“No. Hold on.” Clint shifted him, again, moving him slightly onto his leg, though keeping his grip firm.

He was going to get through this, and then Barton was going to regret it – _C ANCEL ASSET SELF-TERMINATION_ – for the brief remaining moments of his life. There, just at the edge of a now-tattered sleeve, was his opening; his roommate had his bracers on, yes, but they didn’t cover the underside of _both_ arms. Hawkeye hadn’t seen _that_ , now had he?

 _E LIMINATE ENEMY COMBATANT: BARTON, CLINTON FRANCIS. ALIASES: HAWKEYE, RONIN, CLINT, ROOOOOMMATE, miNEMYHUmaNmYCLiNt. AVAILABLE WEAPONS: TEETH. CLAWS_. Bucky bit down onto the inside of Clint’s arm, wrenching against the muscles in his neck and back, uncoordinated limbs wrapping around Barton’s bicep, scrabbling until his claws got purchase in flesh and fabric. He heard a hiss, a woman shouting, but- _K ILL UNCONFIRMED. ELIMINATE TARGET_.

He bit again, tasting blood in his mouth, feeling the tremor of THE TARGET’S arm, even as he could see the man’s other hand moving in his periphery. _Good._ If Barton hit him off, he’d take a chunk of his roommate’s arm when he went, and that might buy him additional time. Bucky gauged the distance to the ground; he would land hard with his legs only half functional, but he could make it under the table, at least. That was a more easily defensible position. Clint’s hand settled against the scruff of his neck and… held?

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Sarge.”

“Nrrngrgrg.” His growl was muffled around the mouthful of Barton’s arm. Bucky tightened his jaw, hissing out the side of his mouth around tiny bubbles of blood.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it after we dosed your beer you last night.”

Barton had drugged him _twice?!_ What the fuck? They were supposed to trust each other. Clint let Bucky live with him. He ate pizza with him, and took him on walks, even shared coffee with him. He was Bucky’s friend – _my human_ – Clint was… Clint was Hawkeye, trained SHIELD agent, Avenger, not so formerly a professional assassin. Clint was the man he’d mistaken for Captain America, the man he’d tracked back to New York based on nothing but a suit and the chance of seeing Stevie, again. Clint was the man who called him a grumpy ass-hat, and bought him cute hoodies, and held him through his episodes. Clint was his… his friend… And Bucky… 

Buck was a cat… But more than that, he was a murderer. A machine. A monster. He couldn’t even manage his own fucking head; here he was hurting his… _his Clint_ , for fuck’s sake! The man’s blood was literally running out of his mouth. Bucky had tried to kill him, and it had come almost as automatically as breathing. No wonder they had tried to sedate him; they knew what he could do.

Bucky trembled, feeling a cold numbness wash over him. Starting in his limbs, the chill crept up along his legs, until he could almost _feel_ the ice forming, his torso freezing. Even though his jaws were still locked around Clint’s arm, a soft whine pushed itself out of him. _Not now._ Fuck, this couldn’t happen now.

“Sarge?” Barton still had him mostly in his lap, almost cradling him, now that Bucky thought about it. The man spoke softly – despite the clear pain he must have inflicted on his roommate, Clint had held his voice even after that initial curse – almost soothing. “I promise that I’ve got you, if you want to let go. Neither of us wants to hurt you.”

Still standing at the ready in the kitchen, Black Widow said nothing, though he could see a bit of the ready tension bleed from her stance. Movements unsteady, jerky from tranquilizers and his rising panic, Bucky relaxed his jaw, slowly pulling away from where he had mauled the inside of Clint’s arm. He could see it bleeding now, little rivulets of blood flowing with each pulse, crimson trickling down the man’s bicep to stain his roommate’s pants. He had done that. He had-!

“Woah, easy. I gotcha, Sarge.” Bucky hadn’t noticed himself swoon, but he must have pitched to the side with the way his human had him cradled in his other arm, now resting in close against his side. Wasn’t he scared? Why hadn’t Barton just thrown him across the room? He should have been livid, and- 

“‘Tasha, can you get me a washcloth?”

“I am not leaving you with _that.”_

“Widow. Please.” That didn’t quite sound like a request, but Bucky wasn’t sure of much of anything at the moment. He was still trembling beneath Clint’s fingers. His human was speaking soft nonsense, again – like all the times he’d panicked before – his slowly stroking hand gentle in a way Bucky couldn’t comprehend. This man, who had drugged him, and whom he’d subsequently tried to kill, was comforting him, carrying him through the panic and the guilt like he had so many times before.

He felt Clint shift, realized he’d been moved to the centre of the man’s lap. Natalia had returned. She stood at arm’s length, passing the dampened washcloth to his human. Bucky squirmed – _No, I’m disgusting…!_ – as fingers tucked beneath his chin, lifting his face up until he could look up at his roommate.

“You’re a mess, buddy. Hold still, okay?”

The wet terrycloth passed over his face, rubbing down the fur and coming away streaked with red and pink. What? What was happening? It happened, again, then Clint folded the cloth and did it a third time.

“‘Tasha, can you grab another one?”

“I brought that for you, not the cat, Hawkeye.” 

He was jostled, haunches pulling in close against Barton’s side so that he was better able to sprawl out across the man’s thighs.

“Okay, then can you grab two?”

“You probably need stitches.”

“You’ve got a steady hand and there’s lidocaine in the cabinet; I’ll be fine.”

It was only a moment before there was another washrag rubbing through the fur of his face, scrapping from ears to whiskers, then down under his chin, warm wet cloth wiping away the last traces of blood. The trembling had lessened, little shivers still skittering down his spine, but nothing like the full body tremors he’d been managing just a few moments earlier. Whatever they had given him must have been kicking in, then; Bucky felt like his thoughts were pushing through a sticky haze, and he honestly wouldn’t have been able to keep upright without being able to lean into Clint.

“Buddy? You with us?” 

A hand waved slowly in front of his face, and he tilted, rolled really, onto his back as he looked up at his roommate. “Grrmrrrmmeng?”

“Yeah.” Sad blue eyes smiled down at him before Clint looked back at his partner. “Definitely working now.”

“Mrrgg…”

“You’re okay, Sergeant.” His roommate slid from the chair to the floor, probably at normal speed, but the whole world had become its own tilt-o-whirl for Bucky, so the movement seemed confusingly instantaneous. With his uninjured arm, Clint lowered him onto his favourite pillow. “You just hang there for a minute, yeah?” His human stood, walking back to the kitchen table, where Romanov had set up an impromptu medical station. “I’ve had worse.”

“He’s still a cat. It’s an infection risk.”

Bucky couldn’t see what was happening, the table blocked his view, but he heard Clint hiss, followed by a muttered _“Hold still!”_ from Natalia.

It didn’t seem that they were planning to kill him, but, truthfully, this was an unacceptable situation for all of them. He was drifting at the edge of consciousness, sprawled across a pillow on the floor, a helpless target until whatever they had doped him up on finally wore off. Both Hawkeye and Black Widow were clearly at risk if he… _lost_ himself, again. He needed to be somewhere safe, from them, and for their sake. 

Rolling onto his feet, legs shaking beneath him, he surveilled the living room. The couch was safe, but not secure. The dining table was in use. But… there was one place he could go. Bucky was still trembling too much from whatever tranquilizers they’d used on him for the shudder brought on by those memories to be noticeable. “Nrrng.” 

He wobbled unsteadily toward the cat carrier, pitching forward on his single front paw with each step, slow and unsteady. Bucky was almost there – how had it taken him this long to cover the distance of only a few metres? – when he felt the soft tread of someone walking up behind him. He sped his pace as best he was able, galumphing clumsily toward the open crate door.

“Hey, hey, woah. We are not putting you in kitty jail, Sergeant.”

Hawkeye scooped him back up just steps from slipping inside, all too quickly walking him back to the couch. The Black Widow sat at the other end, gaze fixated on him as he was settled between them on the middle cushion. His roommate nestled him on top of one of his sweatshirts; by the slight metallic tang, Bucky knew it was the one he’d violently mangled only moments before. 

“You just sit right there. Comfy?” His human punctuated the question with a little pet between his ears.

In spite of the dizziness and near-total lack of coordination, Bucky swiveled his head to look at the man and snorted. Clint Barton was insane. Bucky needed to be locked up, if only for his roommate’s safety. How could anyone suggest otherwise, after what had just happened?

Unfazed by his drugged attempts at glaring, Barton gave him one last long pet, fingers carding through his fur from ears to tail, before he leaned back into the corner of the couch.

“Secret’s out, Sergeant Barnes, so, we can either deal with it or…” Clint pressed his lips thin, sparing a glance to the bandages wrapping his arm. “… or there is no other option because we’re going to deal with it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... that was a nice easy read, wasn't it?  
> (Please don't hurt me!)
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you for reading this far, and for sticking with it. Trust that it was as difficult to write as it was to read. This is why I had to be so cryptic about the comments from last chapter: Clint _is_ sweet, but Sarge was getting snuggly because he was doped out...
> 
>  
> 
> Also, special thanks to aw_writing_no for being a consult on some veterinary things regarding cats and anesthesia.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to elenorasweet, space_luna, feathers_and_cigarettes, and reystarkrogers for their constant support in getting this chapter and the next cohesively onto the page.
> 
> There is a mention of thinking of self-harm by a character in this chapter. It's brief, but I wanted to let you know up front, dear readers. We're wrapping up the heart through a blender chapters - at least for a while - and I'm forever grateful to everyone who has hung on up until this point.

“… or there is no other option because we’re going to deal with it.” Clint let himself lean back into the corner of the sofa, nodding to the cat beside him.

His roommate stared back at him like that a long while – eyes hazy, ear twitching, head tilted until his fluffy cheek was smushing into the cushion – before turning to look at where ‘Tasha had settled, still armed and ready, on his other side. Sergeant seemed to spend much less time considering her than him before turning his attention back to Clint. “Nyrrnggrgrgg...”

He was definitely not on board for that; the cat’s – man’s? agent’s? _asset’s?_ – response was slurred from the drugs, but that was a clearly recognizable _“No.”_ Clint pursed his lips, again, with a sigh. At least Sarge was no longer the furry windmill of death; he really had been concerned that Natasha might end up shooting the guy just moments ago.

The question now was, well, now what? They had planned out apprehending the cat, trying to confirm his identity, but afterwards? How in holy heck was he supposed to interrogate a cat? Even discounting the training of the Winter Soldier, aka Buckitty Barnes – he saw Nat’s eyebrows lift as he snorted – to resist torture, how were they supposed to get information out of something that couldn’t talk or write? Yes or no questions, maybe?

Beside him, the cat whined, head bobbing unsteadily in the direction of the carrier. He lifted himself up onto all threes, limbs shaking before he collapsed and fell back into Clint’s side. Out of habit, he found himself pulling Sergeant in against his hip, only pausing from his regular petting when Nat clicked her tongue. _Right. Enemy agent cat._

Speaking of which, that raised a pertinent question. “Nat, how long is he going to be this docile?”

“A normal cat? He’d have been out for three hours. Maybe four.” She didn’t look up at him as she spoke, and Clint realized she’d kept her gaze fixed on Sarge this whole time. “At the rate he’s going, I wouldn’t bet on more than another forty minutes at the outside. Probably less than half an hour, though he should be feeling it tomorrow. We gave him enough to take someone the size of _Tony_ down.”

“Right. At least that leaves us with a few options, then. ” With care, he nudged the cat back onto the destroyed remnants of his sweatshirt. “Sarge?”

The cat turned to look at him, face pressed down into a scowl. He did his best to put his lone front paw over his face, but only succeeded in hitting himself in the ear. Clint forced himself to remember that _Aww… cute!_ was not an appropriate response at the moment.

“No point in pouting about it, buddy.” Clint wasn’t exactly sure what he should be doing, looking down at his roommate. Even two days ago, he might have accompanied his words with a pet, or a little flick to the cat’s ear, but Sergeant actually being human raised a whole lot of issues about boundaries; how many of Sarge’s affections had been affectations was up for debate, and Clint was still wary to touch him given their most recent interaction. “My guess is that you’re probably _not_ gonna mind control me into a murder frenzy, or kill me in my sleep, despite your little hissy-fit earlier?”

Sarge’s ears dropped, and he looked down at the floor.

 _Okay…_ The cat seemed remorseful, or, at the very least, embarrassed over his earlier behaviour.

“But I’m also starting to realize that this is gonna get really annoying, fast.” Interrogating a cat had been something he and Natasha had talked about in a very abstract sense; the actuality of it was much more awkward than he’d expected. But Hawkeye was old hat at getting information from difficult sources. This would just involve the adjustment of a few tactics; outlining the parameters in a way that could work with a cat. “First, let’s go with that _mrp_ thing for _yes_ , and the _nrng_ for no thing you’ve been doing. Can you do that?”

“Mrrr _rrrp_.”

“No. _You_ don’t get to be an asshole today, Sergeant.”

“Mrouwree.”

As the cat settled into a more upright position beside him, Clint turned, knee pulled up onto the cushion, uninjured arm over the back of the couch, so that he was facing the Sarge. Still silent at the other end of his sofa, Natasha mirrored his posture. They locked eyes for a moment, and she nodded. _All green._ “So, we’ve got three options, Sergeant Barnes.”

The cat’s ears twitched slightly at his name.

“Option one: We turn you over to SHIELD and let them handle you, however they see fit. Chances are good they put you back on ice – they're not going to risk letting you out of sight, again – or make you _officially_ KIA. A few people won’t like it -” By which, of course, he meant Phil, who – because he was _Phil_ – would hate having to keep hiding something from the rest of SHIELD, as well as from Steve. “- but their records already have you logged as dead.”

“Option two: You come down off this little trip and answer _all_ of our questions, we’ll keep them yes or no, and maybe, big fucking huge _maybe_ , we – myself, Nat, and a few people we can trust – try to figure this shit storm out. We don’t ice you, in either sense, and-”

Clint was interrupted by the woman on the other end of the couch. “Minuscule chance that we might tell Captain Rogers you’re alive.”

Sarge perked up at that, on a bit of a delay, but turning to look back over at where Natasha sat rigidly beside him.

Clint looked back up at his partner, still sitting at the ready, prepared to shock the creature sitting between them, face unreadable. He felt his hands moving before he could fully articulate the words. ‘ _NAT? WHY?’_

Her hands might almost have looked like a heart as she answered. _‘REWARD.’_

His partner was thinking through this more quickly than he was, it seemed. The not-cat might respond better to a positive incentive than a direct threat. Of course, that threat was still on the table to be executed, if he turned out to be more of a problem than he already had been.

“Mrrn?” Sergeant was looking back at him now, head tilted, oddly expectant.

“Oh, right… Option three: We have to kill you.” Clint had forgotten how easy it was to say that; hadn’t had to use that calm, quiet tone for those words in a very long time. “Yeah, I kinda don’t want to kill you, mauling aside, so option three is the last resort. The less cooperative you are, the more likely it gets invoked, which none of us wants, right?”

The cat considered him a moment, head shaking an unsteady, but clearly intended negative. He edged closer to Clint’s side, head tilted back, eyes unfocused. “Mronrrnggreep?”

Sentences where not within Barnes’ capabilities at the moment, but he was trying to get something more complex across regardless of that. The cat scooted and turned, until his face was butting into Clint’s hip, furred head pressing in against the knife sheathed there under his sweats. “Mrrprryyang.”

It was at once unthinkable and disheartening. That could not _really_ be what his roommate _wanted_ , could it? But the way Sarge kept talking to him – slow, slurred, strung-together cat words as he pawed Clint’s leg – made him think maybe Barnes was more self-aware, and more self-destructive, than either he or Natasha had credited. How was he supposed to talk down a fucking cat? “That would probably be an easier exit ticket than you – really, than anyone in this room – deserve, don’tcha think?”

Chastized, the not-cat nodded slowly, slinking a few inches back.

“Besides, I... _we_ get, I think, that this probably isn’t all on you at this point, Barnes. We read your files; and I’ve got a feeling that there’s a lot going on in that tiny cat-shaped skull of yours.”

Sergeant swiveled said head, waggling a bit side to side, before mewling piteously. He looked away from Clint, turning towards Natasha and yowling, low and warbly, then put his lone paw over his face.

 _‘WHAT. NOW?’_ Nat shook her head to his signing, also at a loss. Getting any sort of concrete response out of him would be difficult – Clint was certain that he had just seen the Winter Soldier during that attack, but this was definitely Sergeant Barnes – and getting anything close to a cogent conversation going with the not-cat was going to take a lot of time, and would have to wait until he came down off of this bender.

The way he was now, Sarge looked absolutely miserable, and, while there was no guarantee that he wasn’t going to turn back into the Winter Kitten after the tranquilizers wore off, Clint hated that he was so obviously distressed. He could see the not-cat’s striped fur tremble, his roommate still shaking like he did after one of his episodes. It was a struggle not to reach out and haul him over, wrap him up and hold him; knowing that he was human – that they might _be_ flashbacks, caused by Hydra fucking up his brain all those years – that only made it worse.

While his own torment had been brief, Clint remembered how bad he was after. There had been too many nights when, if he hadn’t had Lucky or ‘Tasha, or someone like Bruce – up late that he could trail after around with in the Tower – he would have to curl up and hide in the closet just to feel safe. Open rooms, empty spaces; they had all been too much of a reminder of how it felt to drift helplessly in his own head, of how easy a target he could be for someone with his own skills.

That had been after far less time; he'd spent only a few weeks in Loki's thrall. Sergeant had been in and out of that kind of torture for years. That shared experience pulled at him, leaving Clint feeling guilty for _not_ trying to help more. The guy next to him – he’d already accepted Sarge as more human than cat –  had clearly panicked when he and Widow had confronted him; keeping his roommate calm was probably their safest course of action.

He looked up just in time to see Natasha signal him with a wave. _‘THOUGHTS?’_

 _‘SAFE. UNDER. SOFA.’_ That had been Sarge’s hiding spot for months, though he’d been under far less frequently of late. While the worst of it seemed to be behind them, this might help build back some small bit of their shattered trust, and there was nothing to keep him or Nat from stunning or re-sedating Sergeant if he refused to come out. They’d have a better idea of the dosing, anyway.

“I’m going to pick you up.” Careful to telegraph his actions physically to reinforce his words, Clint slid his uninjured arm beneath the sweatshirt, scooping his roommate – currently an all-but-boneless ball of fur – in tight against his side. He lowered them both to the floor, setting the hoodie and cat down beside the edge of the couch, and sliding it back, pushing Sarge under until only his head and paw poked out from beneath it. “Little less exposed. Feels better, right?”

The cat flicked his nose, wriggling into the knit fabric and blinking hazy eyes back up at him, nodding slowly.

Clint stretched out on his stomach between the couch and coffee table, cognizant of – but ignoring – the disapproving half-glare Natasha was giving him. Yes, he was well aware that this could be a major miscalculation, but he was trusting his gut on this one. “Look, Sergeant Barnes… Bucky… whatever. This is really fucking weird.”

“Mrr… Mrrrp.”

“Good, glad we can agree on that.” Chin resting on one hand, he motioned first to himself, then his partner, as he spoke. “Now, Nat and I? We’re going to do what’s best for our team through all of this, and that would usually mean handling all of your… _messiness_ without them having to worry.”

Folded ears dropping further, Sergeant nodded, again, whimpering softly into the hoodie. His roommate turned away, looking at the floor somewhere beneath the coffee table, but not at him. “Myan mrrrp.”

“Right.” Clint tapped one finger against that outstretched fluffy paw, waiting to talk until he was sure he had the cat’s attention, again. “But, see, the problem is that, _technically_ , you’re the last Howling Commando to be listed as MIA. Your unit’s gone, but you and Steve’s records stayed with SSR… which makes you SHEILD and, likewise, part of our team… Do you see our problem?”

“Mrou?” Sarge blinked a few times, head tilting to one side, and then the other. Soft paw pads brushed the tip of his finger. “Mroureep?”

“Look, I get the whole guilt thing, believe me, but we’ve got to get a handle on this raging dumpster fire and figure out what all _happened_ to you.”

Sergeant nodded slowly back at him. Still unsteady, and with clear effort, the cat pulled himself from beneath the couch and up onto his legs.

On the sofa, Clint could see Nat tense, something Sarge must have noticed as well, his roommate stopping, looking back over his shoulder at her. “Mrou?”

She offered him only a slight inclination of her head, but that seemed to be enough. Barnes turned back to face him, slowly crossing the few feet that separated them, stopping abruptly, paws over-correcting as he sat down with a heavy little thud. Head hunched down between his shoulders, the cat very lightly brushed his paw against the edge of Clint’s bandages, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes. “Nyrrng... Myann grprwn. Mroureep? ”

“Apology accepted, Sergeant Barnes.”

Another nod followed before the cat turned his head, focusing back on Natasha. He tapped at Clint’s arm, again, ears flicking as he asked. “Mrou nyaurp?”

“I remember him. The other you from before. They called me Natalia, then, in the Red Room.” Back Widow’s voice was soft, even, and sent a shiver running up the back of his neck; she was still approaching Sergeant like a mission. “I can’t say I trust you, James Barnes, but I can sympathize.”

Unfolding herself slightly from the corner, she patted the cushion beside her. Clint prepared to push himself up from the floor to join her, but his roommate beat him to it, clumsily dragging himself back onto the sofa and reclaiming his seat on the middle cushion. Barton stayed on the floor, but shifted in to lean against the couch, ready to intervene if necessary.

“Hawkeye says you are aware of why, some nights, he sleeps so poorly.” Nat nodded down to where he still sat on the floor, green eyes crinkling, then turned back to the cat.

“Mrrp.”

“For a while – a long while – he wasn’t sleeping at all. Just going until he collapsed. As you can see, very little has changed.” A smile pulled at her lips, deepening with a twitch when Sarge sneezed, something Clint had come to recognize as a laugh, and which she must have picked up on that as well.

“You _are_ going to work with us, James Barnes, that is not an option.  While have had our... _differences,_ I can respect your reticence. What I cannot do is allow for you to harm my partner, again, James.” Whatever humour had softened her visage fell away in an instant, leaving the familiar unvarnished blankness of Black Widow's working face. “I am under the impression that you are remorseful for your earlier reaction?”

Sergeant looked away, disturbingly human – because, shit, he really was, wasn’t he? – as he cut eye contact with her to glance over at Clint, before nodding back up at her, head still somewhat downcast.

“Good. Hawkeye has been exceedingly patient with you, and, in light of that, I’m sure you’re quite aware of how unwarranted your earlier behaviour was.”

Clint could tell his roommate was uncomfortable – ears down, shoulders hunched, tail curled in close against his side and tucked up around his leg – and he was, himself, beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed on the poor guy’s behalf. He’d been on the receiving end of more than his share of Nat’s dressings down over the years, most recently about Sarge himself. Still, he’d never expected his partner to be giving his not-cat her strange version of a platonic shovel talk; Natasha was genuinely more upset about their earlier altercation than he was.

Though, given that he was trembling, again, possibly equally as upset as the cat sitting in front of her. “Nyrrngrrm… Myanngw.”

“He may have accepted your apology. I, however, am not certain yet that I will.” Natasha inclined her head; if not for the clear violence of her words, she would almost have sounded reassuring as she addressed his roommate. “I _will_ promise you that same thing I promised Hawkeye. If you lose control of your mind and hurt a member of my family again, I will kill you myself.”

She extended her hand, waiting.

Despite her words – or maybe because of them? – Sergeant looked almost relieved, straightening up to sit properly, head twisting over his shoulder to look at Clint. Turning back, he nodded to Natasha. “Mrrou. Mrrp.”

Clint relaxed, just a bit, at this apparent truce. Still, it was difficult to reconcile: The vacant glare and mechanical precision he’d heard his partner speak of in whispers, of which he’d seen a handful of rare, disturbing video clips; the winking G.I. from the fading photographs and museum exhibits, standing behind Steve in his navy uniform, already wearing a weary smile on a too young face; the enormous puffball sitting beside Natasha, paw grasped lightly between two of her fingers as they shook on that promise.

Clint still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nat gave that particular talk to Clint after his incident with Loki, when they still thought Phil was dead. It's a good reassurance for a guy worried sick about hurting his friends and family: _"I'll end you before you can."_
> 
> Next chapter, more from Sarge, and someone other than a member of Strike Team Delta finally makes an appearance!
> 
> Ta, dear readers!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is here in large part because elenorasweet and reystarkrogers are horrible people (i.e.: the **most** encouraging friends) who prodded me into actually editing this story.
> 
> But, I can't thank all the repeated readers and commenters enough: You guys make my day every day.

☆°•

_Bucky had sidled over next to Natasha, then sat back on his haunches, lifting his paw to pat just below her shoulder for a moment. “Nryee?”_

_“Yes; it healed up nicely. You were a horrible teacher, but a useful lesson.”_

☆°•

Bucky snuggled further down into his sweatshirt. That he wasn’t dead after the the incidents of the morning was a surprise. Hawkeye leaving him free to roam the apartment was a damned miracle, but he knew Black Widow hadn’t been threatening him; those deadly promises she would keep.

Still, Clint had been strangely rational about it all. He’d warned Bucky that the windows were going to stay closed, that he could be tracked inside the building and out, that the crate was a perfectly viable option should he cause trouble. And, of course, and that a few tranq-darts, or a few well-placed arrows, were not off the table if things got out of hand inside his head. Then Barton had seen Natalia out, called for a pizza, and dropped himself down onto the couch with barely more than a sideways glance at him.

Bucky had been at a loss for direction until the pizza had arrived. Clint had served himself and begun picking the anchovies off of his slice, dropping them into a bowl on the floor in front of the couch. Taking his cue, Bucky sat at the man’s feet, picking at the fish and trying to calm the nervous roiling of his stomach. After, he had slunk off toward the stairs before considering that he might no longer be welcome in Clint’s space.

The man in question _had_ been watching him – eyes focused on Bucky where he’d stilled partway up the stairs – but he hadn’t looked angry. Halfway through a slice of pizza, Barton had finished it before nodding in his direction. “I’ll be up for a bit, but go on to bed if you want.”

He’d scrambled the rest of the way up, almost running into the doorjamb in his haste to get out of sight again. Bucky had settled on a pillow on the floor. He’d been deep into a shit-your-pants nightmare when he heard his roommate speak, felt the light nudge against his back.

“Why are you on the floor?”

Bucky looked up to see Clint, already in his pyjamas, looking at him over the side of the bed.

“You’re like a hundred years old, right? No wonder you always get pissed sleeping on the couch.” He patted the edge of the mattress, head jerking to the side. “Get up here, Sergeant.”

“Mrr… Mrou?” Did Clint really not care? He had acknowledged Bucky as a threat, but was still willing to sleep next to him? His confusion must have been clear; one minute he was on the floor, the next had him scooped up one-handed, Barton setting him atop the pillow.

His roommate was already slipping his hearing aids off – further opening himself up to the danger Bucky knew he presented – and settling onto his own side of the bed. “Don’t question it, Sarge. Just go back to sleep.” Bucky stared at the back of his head, listening as Clint’s breathing evened out, watching the man spread out like a starfish across every available space on the bed, completely at ease in his presence.

Clint Barton – Hawkeye – was still offering his trust, even if Bucky had done nothing to earn it, had already done enough to lose it forever. He didn’t deserve that kind of gift, felt selfish for taking it, but wasn’t willing to give it up. Curling up on his pillow, he tucked his head beneath his tail, trying to quiet his brain enough to sleep as the first light of dawn brightened the edges of the bedroom curtains.

☆°•

“Damnit!”

His roommate’s pillow landed half on his tail, startling him into a yowl that he quickly swallowed back down. The room was dark, again, but he could see Clint sitting upright beside him, forehead resting on his palm, chest heaving. “Mrou?”

Barton shook his head, reaching for his pillow. “Sorry about that, Bucky… er… Sarge… You…”

“Myan.” At least now he could shrug without concern about it not being the right thing to do. He scooted closer, still not touching Clint, but looking at him in a way he hoped came across as concerned.

“That’s… kinda not helping; the whole blue eyes in the darkness thing.” Barton turned on the light, slid one aid on, and reached for him before stopping, uninjured arm falling to the bed just shy of his tail. Clint let out a broken laugh. “Gotta stop that. Prolly sick of putting up with it, huh?”

Bucky huffed, padding close enough to butt at the side of Clint’s hand, and quickly sliding in beneath his arm to lean against him. Of course, he wasn’t sick of it. They were… friends? Roommates was what he’d thought before, but now?

Bucky wasn’t sure if there was a real label for this whatever this was. Brain altered assassin pseudo enemy roommates? Maybe that’s where they were. Regardless, he didn’t mind sitting up with Clint after a flashback nightmare, even if it had almost sent him tumbling off the bed.

Clint sighed, free hand scrubbing at his face, but lay down so that he faced Bucky, rubbing up behind his ears, again – “You sure this is okay?”

His purr and slight nod seemed sufficient; he didn’t mind his roommate still petting at him. After so long without positive contact, he’d enjoyed the light pets from the start. While he might not have wanted this from anyone else, it was far from bad from Hawkeye. Bucky would have missed this; it was one more thing he’d almost fucked up and ruined the day previous.

“So… I gotta say, calling you Bucky feels kinda weird.” Barton’s fingers were carding through the scruff of his neck, working steadily across the fur beneath his collar and hoodie. “I mean, I know it’s your name, but Sarge is still good, right?”

“Mrrp.” It had worked up until now, so he had no problem with it.

“So, um… Nat kept calling you James?”

He could barely remember being called that; mostly in a softly chastising voice he assumed must have been his mother. He didn’t dislike _James;_ if Natalia insisted on using it, he wasn’t going to argue. From his roommate, however, “Nyrrng.”

“Alright, what about Jim?”

“Nyrrng.”

“Jaime?”

That one wasn’t too bad. Bucky nodded as he angled into his roommate’s fingers, shoving his right shoulder up into Barton’s hand. “Mrouee.”

“Yeah, maybe once in a while, then… Oh, what about J.B.?”

He considered it; J.B. was something he’d answered to before. He had hazy memories of _J.B. Barnes_ stencilled on his footlocker, even vaguely remembered signing his name like that. It would suffice. “Mrrp.”

“Cool.” Clint yawned, grumbling against the edge of his pillow. “Is it bad that I kinda don’t want to wake up again until it really _is_ tomorrow?”

Glancing at the clock, red numbers blinking back 21:02, Bucky shook his head. He was content to stay abed. The last of the drugs were still wearing off; he remained sluggish and off kilter. “Mrouee.”

“Yeah. Early morning, then.” Reaching over his head, Clint fiddled with the clock, giving him another back scritch as he dropped his aid on the bedside table and laid back down.

Bucky started to settle in, lids lowering, but Barton was still looking at him. He tilted his head, mouth opening in a loud, exaggerated _“Mrou?”_ since he knew his roommate couldn’t really hear him.

“Just thinking…” Clint rolled back over; he was snoring into his pillow before Bucky even settled his head back onto his arm.

☆°•°•°•

 _Tap._

Something brushed against his fingers, gently prodded the back of his hand.

 _Tap. Tap._

Clint grumbled, the light bright on the other side of his eyelids. Yanking his pillow back over his head, he winced at the pull of the gashes along the inside of his left arm. Blearily, he peered out into the blinding flashes filling his room, registering the muted buzz. _Right. Alarm clock._

A shadow passed across his sight line, and the flashing abated. Still, he was very much awake now, blinking against the early morning brightness filling his room.

From atop the nightstand, his not-cat roommate looked back. The blinking started back up, and Sarge smacked at the clock, again, batting it several times, mouth open in a yowl.

“Hang on, I’ll-” Clint had tangled his feet in the top-sheet. He nearly fell of the bed with his first lunge, one hand snagging the alarm clock as the other braced him up off the floor. “-I’ll – shit! – get it.” Of course, it would be the mangled arm that caught his weight. Turning the clock off and falling back onto the bed, Clint was greeted by a concerned mewl.

“Mryee ewn?” J.B. pawed at the back of his hand, careful to avoid his bandages.

“It’s fine.”

The not-cat blinked slowly at him, head twisted to the side, ears low, a distinctly perturbed expression on his furry little face. Sarge sneezed. _Bullshit._ Without further comment, his roommate scampered to the floor, scurrying away.

Clint had just turned on his aids in time to hear a rattling slam; the bathroom echoing with a series of bangs and scrapping sounds, sporadic hisses and angry not-cat rambling, then only the steady scrape of something across the floor.

J.B. emerged, pushing the battered medical box in front of him. “Mryee!”

“Fine, yes, don’t hurt yourself, jeez.” He rushed to lift the toolbox with his uninjured arm and scoop up the not-cat with the other. Clint settled both on the bed.

Sarge watched as he worked, and Clint fought not to stare back. It was more than mildly unsettling. He’d been treating his roommate more like a pet than a threat, but who could say what Sarge had tucked away in his messed-up little head.

His roommate tilted that fluffy head, bi-coloured eyes wet. “Mryee… mwe?”

“I’m fine, okay?” Clint snapped the box closed and held up his freshly wrapped arm.

J.B. nodded back at him. “Nyuum!”

“Glad I pass muster, Sarge.” He chuckled. Standing, Clint waited for his roommate to jump down from the bed; didn’t hurt to keep an eye on the guy, since he’d been drugged to the eyeballs that day before. Once J.B. was on the floor, he headed for the kitchen. “So, I was thinking coffee, then maybe we can hang here until Nat comes by. You hungry?”

“Mrrp.” Sarge trailed behind him leisurely, but not underfoot. That should have been his first clue; the not-cat had never tripped him up on the stairs.

The scent of coffee had already filled the room, confirming that his roommate had beaten him in waking up. “Thanks for starting the pot this morning… and the alarm.”

“Mrou.”

Clint fell into his usual routine as Sarge claimed his spot at end of the counter: making his own coffee – black, thanks much – pouring coffee and a pinch of sugar into the little cup before he set it in front of his roommate. Then it was grabbing a few eggs for him and a can of wet food for the not-cat, which… “So, um, J.B.… do you actually _like_ the taste of this?”

His roommate’s whiskers twitched and – in a way that looked just _wrong_ for a cat, even if he wasn’t _really_ a cat – Sarge shrugged. “Nrngmrrp.” _Kinda…_

Definitely not a yes. Clint had eaten cat-food before. It had been marginally better than Steve’s attempts at chili; edible only because it might stave off starvation. If, as a not-cat, all that Sarge could say was that it was _alright,_ Clint wasn’t gonna force the guy to eat it. “Would you like something else?”

“Mrou…” He nodded, little nose twitching, eyes on the frying pan Clint pulled from the drying rack.

“How about eggs, and, uh…” Opening the refrigerator door didn’t offer too many more options, aside from leftover take-away, snacks Nat had brought by, and beer. J.B. was probably not going to say yes to beer. “I got some of Nat’s hummus in here. There’s peanut butter and jelly pre-made sandwiches, too. Sound good?”

Sarge shrugged.

It was worth a shot. Hummus had been new for Steve, but Rogers freakin’ _loved_ peanut butter, so maybe it would sit okay with one of his contemporaries. “Alright, I’ll get the eggs and the sandwiches, and you can… just stay in sight, Sarge.”

Sarge actually moved closer, nudging his cup across the counter before him, until he was positioned to watch.

By the time Clint finished plating sandwiches and eggs, and topping off their coffee, his roommate was already on the floor, eagerly looking up at him.

“What, no, get back up here. Good effort on the whole cat thing, but, what with you being – ya know – _you,_ that seems like kind of a dick move, J.B.” Clint set the shallow dish that held his roommate’s food up on the table, putting his coffee beside it. He dropped into the more stable of his two chairs.

Sergeant scrambled from floor to chair to table top, sitting across from him head tipped in question. “Rwm?”

With a nod back, Clint mumbled his words out around a mouthful of egg. “Naow whee eahkt.” The did so in chewy silence, though the quiet hardly felt awkward. It was a testament to just how used to his furry roommate Clint had become that he was still _able_ to be relaxed around him.

He went back for another sandwich and a third cup of coffee. Sarge was still working at his first half when he got back, mouth smacking wide around the peanut butter. “You okay there?”

“Mrrhhrppsh.”

“If you’re sure.”

J.B. nodded. On the table, Clint’s phone beeped, message box blinking.

> **_ArachNat_**  
>  [ _Planning. Stay in. Be ready tomorrow at 0800._ ]

_Great._ He wasn’t going to get back to questioning his roommate without Natasha as backup. He could’t keep acting like he was still oblivious to the assassin sharing his cat’s brain.

Beside him, J.B. choked down another chunk of sandwich.

Clint sighed into his mug.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to everyone at the Bad Decisions discord who - because reasons? - continues to encourage this, to everyone still hanging with me, and to everyone that has let me cry on them this week. Making something, even this silly, has helped so much. I can't express how much it's meant, so please accept this humble flailing.

Bucky still wasn’t sure what to expect from his roommate. There had been no further mention of yesterday. Or tomorrow. After clearing away the dishes, Barton had settled back at the kitchen table, disassembling the rotary dispenser for his quiver. It had been fascinating to watch, at least until _cat brain_ had gotten bored and fidgety, urging Bucky to stalk off and bat arrows out of the walls. That had lasted long enough for to Clint move on to a new task; customizing his arrows and brushing up on his curses. Apparently, Barton was an invective polyglot. _Impressive._

Now, though, he was out of things to yank from the wall, and Clint was still going; shafts, points, and fletching spread out over the table. Slinking into the kitchen, Bucky got a running start and jumped his way up to the counter, and, from there, to the top of the refrigerator. Bucky settled his head on his arm, watching as the man below him worked.

Barton’s elbows rested on the table, though his posture was otherwise upright. His tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth, jaw set at a slight angle as he worked. He had slipped his aids off, again – they sat beside his arm on the table – which left Bucky wondering. Maybe the lack of extra input helped Clint concentrate?

He found himself wishing he could do that with the very loud portion of his psyche that wanted to pounce down onto the fletching and arrowheads, and send them scattering onto the floor. He sneezed, settling further down and back into his haunches, trying to get into a state of mind he could vaguely remember, when he was waiting Before. Bucky focused on Clint’s hands, watching the deft movements of those fingers as the other man tinkered with his weaponry. He drifted, eyes half-closed.

Clint moved on to repairs on his vest, then a check of his knives. It was only after the last was cleaned, oiled, and re-sheathed that Barton finally acknowledged Bucky, again. He stood, shoving what supplies were left on the table into a pile before crossing to stand beside the refrigerator. Barton rested his shoulder against the door, motioning Bucky closer with a nod, speaking as he put his hearing aids back on. “C’mon down.”

Bucky took the hint, settling atop the man’s shoulder as lightly as he could, checking himself since he was so close to Clint's face, almost slipping off for want of using his claws. His roommate pushed him in closer, considerately resettling Bucky high on his shoulder.

“So…Nat thinks we should pick up, again, tomorrow.” His roommate lifted the last can of cat food, looking for his approval: Tuna; much the same whether for cats or not.

Bucky nodded, and Barton smirked, pulling some carrots and humus, along with leftover pizza, from the refrigerator for himself. “You think you’ll be up for it without going all deathclaw, again?”

That was so thoughtful of him. _You didn't have to ask…_ Bucky fought not to snuggle into Clint’s cheek, head bobbing slowly, tail shifting to keep him steady as his roommate sat back down at the table. Refusing wasn’t even a consideration. It was possible – he didn’t think Clint would give him the chance to say _no_ if there wasn’t a choice – but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to back away from this. He finally had direction, someone willing to help him get _somewhere_. That this particular somewhere was _still_ helping him – patiently, compassionately, without leaving Bucky in fear of any reprisals? – was still rather unbelievable. “Mrrp… Ewn ryaum…” 

Clint leaned over the dining table, dumping cat food, hummus and a torn off chunk of pizza into his food dish, and Bucky jumped down. Watching his roommate dipping crust and carrots into the hummus as he ate, Bucky gave the beige paste a tentative lick. _Not bad._

When he finished, he did his best to wipe his face, dragging it along the side of the pizza box, then padded over to sit beside his roommate. It took a moment for Clint to look over, but, once the man did, Bucky leaned forward, tapping their foreheads together, purring softly. It wasn’t a hug, not really, but he was too grateful not to try something, even if he still couldn’t understand the apparent madman who was willing to forgive someone like him.

“Yeah, I get it, buddy.” Clint petted his head, those familiar fingers rubbing up behind and below his ears prompting Bucky to lean in closer, fighting to quiet the purr thrumming in his chest. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. The way I see it, I got mind fucked and tried to kill my whole team. You clawed up my arm damn good, but that’s about it, right?”

“Nyyrrnng.” He was wrong, or course; Bucky had done so much worse. _More than you could know…_ He wedged himself under his roommate’s arm, curling in against the warmth of his side.

“Well, you haven’t done too much recently, then… You know what I did. Never planned to share that with anyone else, but… Well, cat’s outta the-” Clint’s smile was worth this one joke at his expense. “ _Anyway…_ I’m the last person with any right to be mad at you over some mind control flashback moments.”

“Don’t get me wrong, though. Read their file on you…” Clint petted him, again, hand settling just below Bucky's collar. “… and it's pretty much nightmare fuel, J.B. It sucks, but we can’t just let you loose with all that rolling around in there, even if it’s not your fault.”

☆°•°•°•

Sarge nodded, then shimmied from under his arm, turning to press into his forehead. Clint patted just against the back of his neck for the moment before the not-cat backed away. It was a strange sort of hug, but he didn’t mind it.

When he leaned back, his roommate was staring at him, eyes wide, pleading. “Mryee… myaa?” He must not have answered quickly enough; the not-cat drummed his paw on the back of his hand, asking, again. “Mryee myaaa? Mwe myaa ryaum?”

That was more than he’d expected. J.B. talked regularly, now, but Clint was used to having a little more context to aid in his translations. The conversation hadn’t seemed to be at a question point, despite his roommate’s attempted inquiry. He’d just have to give it his best shot. “I… Um… Me?”

“Nrng.”

Not quite on target, then. “You?”

“Nrngmrrp…” His roommate spun on the table as if looking for something. He clawed at a leftover scrap of newsprint Clint had been using to wipe up oil. “Ryaum mwe. Myaana?”

“Trash? Newspaper?” Sarge nodded, then shook his head with a sneeze.

Closer, then, even if this was fast becoming the most awkward game of charades. _Sort of him and not quite paper?_ Maybe a picture, or- It clicked in that moment, and Clint Barton felt the bile rise up in his throat. He had gotten through it all once before, but that had not been when the subject of that dossier was blinking back at him across his kitchen table. The file-folder was still sitting in his coat closet; the information had been less useful than he’d hoped when Hydra’s Asset had activated.

“You sure about that?” Clint regretted asking as soon as the words left his mouth. For his roommate, those pages weren’t just information on an enemy agent. They were pieces of his life – one that had been _forced on,_ and then _stolen from_ , him – even if Sarge couldn’t recall a lot of it. If anything, Clint knew from his own experience just how much that could mean. Those files held insights Sarge couldn’t get anywhere else; painful, yes, but true and necessary.

After the Battle of New York, when Clint struggled to separate nightmare from memory, and still keep in touch with reality, he’d wanted to know what SHIELD and the team had on him. He knew full well what it was to know there were answers, and know they were being kept from you in the name of your own _safety._ Phil had tried to protect him that way. Fuck, so had 'Tasha for a while. It hadn’t worked; the not knowing only making him feel worse, more broken, too much of a liability to trust. How was he supposed to come to terms with it all, to _“forgive himself,”_ if he didn't even know what the fuck he'd done?

Clint pushed aside his own worries. “Alright, J.B. I just need to post a letter. Let’s get the leash.”

•°•°•°☆

After quietly submitting to the indignity of a harness, and _both_ leashes, Bucky had been hard pressed not to pout when they had only walked down the hall to drop an envelope into the card slot. He wasn’t stir crazy; the air in the apartment was just getting stale.

When the door was once more locked behind them – and those awful leads were _off_ – Clint had scooped up a soda and a battered folder in one arm, and Bucky in the other, settling them both on the couch. He had been very carefully trying not to crowd Barton, but the man had all but forced him onto a blanket thrown across his lap.

“I’m gonna stop reading if you go weird, alright? I don’t know if some of this won’t set you off again.”

“Mrrp.” Pragmatic, but still considerate. Bucky would always appreciate that. Barton was a wonderful human. He kneaded his paws into the blanketing, laid out so that he could lean into Clint and spread his legs out over his roommate’s lap as the man slid open his file.

“Um… before we start this, I gotta ask.” Clint glanced down at files in his hands , taking a deep breath and shutting the folder, again. “Are we still cool, Sarge?”

He flicked his ears at that; how could he not be grateful, after everything his roommate had done for him? Bucky was still awed that Clint Barton was his. He reached upward, gently tapping the middle of his Clint’s chest, ears perking as the man smiled. “Mrrp.” _Yes._ Yes, they were.

☆°•°•°•

_**Enhancement Upgrade Status:** Adequate. Prosthesis successfully connected distal to radial tuberosity. Juncture and enervation holding; re-evaluate for stability following field testing.  
**Recommendations:** Consider extension above synovial joint. Supracondylar crests present possible anchor point for prosthesis. Consider deltoid tuberosity as secondary anchor point._

☆°•

_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset continues attempts at escape and self-injury prior to upgrades despite good function of return conditioning. Chemical anaesthesia marginally effective; all current analgesics ineffective.  
**Recommendations:** Update vocal suppression training protocol and reinforce mouth guard. Consider muzzle. Upgrade ear protection for reset team._

☆°•

_**Enhancement Upgrade Status:** Successful. Deltoid tuberosity appears stable juncture for prosthesis. Consider extension to greater humeral tubercle or above only as necessary; further realignment of gravitational centre may negatively affect asset gait._

☆°•

_**Target Elimination Failed:** CARTER, MARGARET.  
**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset displayed highly erratic behaviour upon sight of Target. Asset presented with excessive aggression upon retrieval. Secondary team retrieved equipment and munitions. Mission suspended._

☆°•

_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset erratic behaviour has abated. Asset responses within expected parameters.  
**Recommendation:** Return Asset to storage pending further need. Transfer mission target CARTER, MARGARET to Red Room._

☆°•

_**Enhancement Upgrade Status:** Adequate. Anchoring of prosthesis at greater humeral tubercle represents most complete prosthetic replacement to date. Enervation successful; asset displays full functionality of limb. Asset mobility adjustments may be necessary; re-evaluate for functionality following field testing._

☆°•

 _ **Target Elimination Confirmed:** STARK, HOWARD._  
_**Secondary Casualty:** STARK, MARIA._  
_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset experienced prolonged lachrymation episode following retrieval. No vocalizations were noted. Wipe and reinforce programming. Repeated lachrymation may speed degradation of muzzle._

☆°•

_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset severely damaged upon retrieval; prosthetic is no longer stable. Acromion and coracoid processes shattered. Multiple scapular fractures. Inadequate remaining teres and deltoid tissue for timely repair. Sedate asset and confer with Zola-system upon return to site._

☆°•

_**Enhancement Upgrade Status:** Successful. Asset displays full functionality of all joints. Interlocked vibranium plating outperforms projections with regard to tensile strength and pressure-force testing. Asset gait shows pronounced variation following change to gravitational centre.  
**Recommendation:** Re-evaluate and re-program for proper gait movement following further field evaluation. Increase muscle recovery protocol. Recommend further augmentation to replace all underframing with vibranium-ceramic composite._

☆°•

 _ **Target Elimination Failed:** ROGERS, STEVEN._  
_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset displayed extensive deviation from expected parameters during and following assignment. Asset presented with excessive aggression upon retrieval. Handler 87-04U Deceased. Handler 89-19Y Deceased. Mission Suspended._  
_**Recommendation:** Asset will require additional enhancement. Current specifications appear inadequate to complete elimination of target ROGERS, STEVEN. Monitor for cessation of erratic and aberrant behaviour. Maintenance protocol prohibits full reset within 150 hours of removal from storage in order to maintain integrity of Asset white matter. Proper management of active hours should include evaluation and implementation of potential alternative enhancements. _

☆°•

_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset erratic behaviour absent following preparatory sedation for debrief. Asset responses within expected parameters. Complete reinforcement of programming following additional enhancement in 72 hours._  
_**Recommendation:** Asset appears fit for upgrade. Primary team will proceed with further enhancement upon relocation to Chester Site 415-817. Regarding Schmidt Fluid: Recommend infusion at brachial port. Consider simultaneous flush of prosthetic stabilizing fluid via radio-lunate juncture port to speed return to active service._

☆°•

 _ **Enhancement Upgrade Status:** Failure. Asset physiologically compromised in attempt at further enhancement. Keep in containment for further evaluation._  
_**New Asset Designation: **S NYEGOHVIK.  
**Maintenance Status:** ****Containment chamber insufficient. UPGRADE IMMEDIATELY._

☆°•

_**Maintenance Team Note:** Asset no longer contained. Retrieve by ANY MEANS NECESSARY._

☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **To one specific _dear_ reader:** You know who you are, dear sweet make-up buddy. I was quite honest about everything. You suffered because Bucky did, indeed, _ask for it._ If anything, you should be mad at Clint for speaking Buckittese.
> 
>  **For you other wonderful, sweet, and dear readers:** Some fun notes!
> 
> The building designation number does align with a real place. Bucky escaped from beneath a college campus!
> 
> The dead agents share mine and my best friend's birthdays; the IRL Rocket to my Groot, except taller, and even _more_ of an asshole.
> 
> My search history - at work no less - now has the query _'disarticulation of a human shoulder'_ in the search. Hopefully, that will keep the hovering tech guy away...


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the usual pep crew, but especially to ElloPoppet, who, like me, holds a true and abiding love deep within for **The World’s Best Coffee Cake**.

The packet had been left resting against his door during the night, though Bruce was surprised to have gotten any mail at all. He squeezed the mailer. At most, there were only a few letters, probably nothing explosive. Not that he knew of too many people wanting to blow him up, but some of his research colleagues were _strange,_ and unstable samples weren’t out of the question.

Dumping the contents on the desk, he was surprised to see his name in a familiar looping cursive across the first piece of mail, the return address listing _Stark Tower._ He hadn’t told Tony – or anyone on the team – where he was going this time. At least he knew the mail forwarding system worked.

Bruce couldn’t find a return address on the postcard; the whole thing covered in neat, tightly-packed block lettering. He opted to start with Tony’s letter, more than a bit surprised the man had taken the time to actually handwrite the entire thing, and almost shocked that his script was this legible.

°•°☆

_Hey, Brucie-bear!_

_I have to admit, this is pretty archaic, but there's a nostalgic fun in it. How's the trip going? Find any good bugs? Is it bugs this time, or is this the mineral trip?_

_I suppose you'll be wanting updates on the main team here at Casa de Crazy. I, as always, am fine, hale and healthy, and well rested. You're not around to verify, so you'll have to take my word on that. This is why you should visit more, beyond all the fun science toys and chances to blow things up. (Or is that why you stay away?)_

_Our Star-Spangled Stevie is in less of a funk than he was when you left, so at about average mope when he's back around here. We are doing just fine. We've been talking like rational adults, and there has been nothing worse than a little snipping. Celebrating one year without trying to kill each other! (I should make us something like the coin you gave me at my one year sober-versary.)_

_J-man and Our Gal want me to pass on their well-wishes. JARVIS gets worried when he can't trace you, so maybe at least update the schedule with a return date. (I'm going to let him keep being your smother-mother because it means he's finally not doing it to me.) FRIDAY just seems to miss someone else in the lab to complain to about me. (I gave them life, and yet they hate me. Is this parenthood?)_

_Natasha said to say “Hello, Dr. Banner,” and that's it, really. She smiled longer than usual afterwards. I'm still not sure if that means she'll be happy to see you, again, or if she's planning to murder you when you get back. Maybe prep for both? Clint hasn't come by in a while, but none of the hospitals or morgues have made a fuss, and Romanov hasn't gone on a rampage of revenge, so I'm sure he's fine._

 _Speaking of our resident SHIELD liaisons, no news is good news from their end. (I’m sure they’ll call the next time something catastrophic happens, assuming we’re not already there.)_

_Gotta tell you, though, you are missing out talking to the kid. He's so quick on the uptake, Bruce. Seriously, rethinking a lot right now because he is a shining example of a demi-adult._

_I am honestly stumped as to how to end this letter. Phone calls are so much easier! Enjoy your vacation._

_Your science sib from another crib!_

_Tony_

°•°☆

Bruce chuckled at the valedication. He missed the team, Tony especially some days, but he’d more than earned any breaks he felt like taking, even if they were only short trips to out of the way roadside motels. He was sure this place hadn’t changed since the 1950s when it was built, and that was fine by him. The cell service was garbage, the lone restaurant – built onto the end of the motel itself – opened promptly at six in the morning and closed by, if not before, nine at night. There was no television, and the internet service was charged per hour. It was, to his mind, the perfect place to just be.

Which of course, meant that getting personal correspondence, from not one person but two, felt incredibly strange. Usually it took him being gone at least a month before enough Avengers-related business piled up that actually set someone reaching out, and even that was rare. The things that needed his brain tended to be long-term projects or immediate, obvious catastrophes; the big guy only got called in for the latter.

The second card had no envelope, nor was there a return address. Whoever it was must not have wanted it tracing back further than his forwarding service. Bruce didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the salutation was enough to let him know this was, if not urgent, at least a high priority concern. After all, nobody had any other reason to address him by his first name.

☆°•°

_Hey, Bob._

_I asked about some help on a project a while ago, and I was hoping we could work something out when you get back. I know you usually like to work alongside your teddy bear, but is there a chance you could make it in to the office without him? Granted, I know it’s a lot to ask for you to fly solo, but I’d appreciate your help, buddy. I’d hate to have to ask some random asshole. I could be kinder, I’ll grant you, but I don’t wanna run this up the flagpole, either._

_Got this new engine I’ve been tinkering with, and it purrs pretty enough, but there’s something not quite right under the hood. I figured it might be better if you gave it a once-over, but thorough, ya know? Things might get a little hairy, but it definitely wouldn’t be a big deal kind of thing, my guy. Just trying to keep this off the insurance, maybe handle it ourselves. Lia and I got pretty far with it, but I trust your opinion. I’ve gotta admit, I’ve lost some sleep over this, had more than my share of nightmares about it just seizing up, so I’ll take whatever advice you can give._

_Thanks, little dude,_

_Frank_

°•°☆

Pulling his glasses from his face, Bruce set them on top of his head, tipping back in the rickety motel desk chair. Nat was the only person with his forwarding address besides Tony. While he usually would have minded her sharing it with Clint, this letter…

He turned the card over in his hands. Now that Bruce looked, it was clear this was just a photograph printed to size on card-stock, without any of the pre-marked lines or copyrights one would have expected from something store-bought. The image was of a large cat, sprawled out of some sort of towel, its little paws – no, just one paw; there wasn’t one on the cat’s left – tucked under its head as it slept. He’d seen this cat before.

A few minutes of scrolling through his phone brought up the image Hawkeye had forwarded to him months earlier. This was definitely the same cat, but what could Clint possibly want to keep from Tony – and apparently also Steve – that involved his cat? Or that had needed to be handled by himself _and_ Natasha? Or that, given Barton’s mention of nightmares, apparently had something to do with mind-control or Loki? Bruce couldn’t help wincing at the thought of something potentially _worse._

Not that he hadn’t been looking into a few things since their last real conversation, but there was nothing _new_ out there, at least not anything he could find. He’d started with Selvig – the man was insane, but he knew nearly everyone involved in fringe science, those people that insisted on tampering with things they really had no business poking around at – and Bruce had followed those trails as best he was able.

Most of what he found, however, was being done by graduate students; minds un-tempered by previous failures, frantically trying to come up with an earth-shattering thesis by replicating decades old, sometimes archaic research. Or – to his chagrin and growing horror – trying to recreate Asgardian technology. Or clone the radiation signature of an infinity stone. Or reanimate some leftover piece of Ultron. It really was awfully discouraging. What kind of dissertation advisor let their students explode themselves like that?

Beyond those little tendrils, though, nothing that seemed even remotely mind-control-esque had come across his desk. The only person he knew that came even close to that sort of thing – and close was an understatement – was even harder to get in touch with than he was. He had to admit he was the slightest bit jealous; not that he would have signed up for Hydra to tinker around in his genome – he had done that well enough on his own, thanks – but being able to disappear, not just from the grid, but from people’s minds? He could have used that once in a while.

Grabbing a page of complimentary motel stationary from the desk drawer, he sat properly in his seat, glad, for once, of his often intrusively good memory. He could still recall the full list of blind drop addresses Natasha had set up for him the first time he’d run. Bruce flipped his glasses back down onto his nose, putting pen to paper.

☆°•°

_Frank:_

_I’ll be travelling a while yet, but I can take a look at your engine when I get back. I know you wouldn’t take advantage of my kindness (and, granted, I don’t much want that around either), but I can get on just fine working without my teddy bear. If anything, sometimes it can get in the way. I’m happy to help if you and Lia can stop by in a few weeks._

_The only thing you will want to consider is whether there might be someone else that could keep whatever’s under the hood from getting worse before I get back. I know you probably wouldn’t want to max out the engine too long, but running it up into the red a few times might give us a better idea of what’s happening. Maybe let someone poke around in the software before we actually pop the hood for a looksee? I’m sure you’ve had somebody in mind._

_I’ll be happy to have you in the shop as soon as I’ve got a free appointment, but you’ll need to schedule with the front desk. The doorman for my office is a little overbearing, so maybe grease that palm?_

_Best of luck, Frank. Give my love to the family._

_Bob_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is the World's Best Coffee Cake: Not too sweet, dense and rich beneath a deceptively crumbly outer layer, and something you either like alright or _abso-freaking-lutely **ADORE**!_
> 
> Also, what is it with Marvel characters who have the initials _B.B._ being guys who go by there middle names?  
>  Robert **Bruce** Banner  
>  James **Buchanan (Bucky)** Barnes  
>  Charles **Bernard (Barney)** Barton
> 
> Bruce’s name I get because of comic mis-prints, but it's still funny.
> 
> As someone who goes by a nickname of their middle name - and, actually, in this fandom, a nickname from the middle of my handle - I always felt a strange kinship with two of these three guys. TLDR: Your entire life, the question of _"What is your name?"_ is fraught with difficulty. My _legal first_ name? My _legal-full_ name? The name(s) I'll _accept_? The one I _actually like_?
> 
> If you ever notice me giving Bucky about 10 different names, it's because that happens a lot when you're a nickname of a middle name person. The record never lines up, so folks mangle your name all kinds of ways, and you just roll with it. (Unless it's your full first-middle(s)-last, in which case it's the government, or, _infinitely worse_ , your parents.)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next chapter is... Hmm... _heavy_ is probably the best way to put it, and it was exceptionally long as well. I pulled this chunk off the front, and hope it's enough to tide you over.
> 
> I'm still so grateful for those of you that keep sticking around for all of this. Special shout out for this chapter, though, goes to **Sevdrag** , who is both an awesome hostess and the owner of a fabulous chonk of a kitty.

There had been an uptick in Hydra chatter regarding their missing asset for the past few months, starting long before Hawkeye had called in to request him to halt the investigation. Many of the earliest intercepted communiques had been in eastern Pennsylvania, then in other parts of New York. For three solid months, conversations relating to the _asset_ , the _sleeper_ , and the _soldier_ had cropped up around the District, only to cut off abruptly. Now, it seemed that Hydra was focused exclusively on New York City and the surrounding area; a good sign that Hawkeye and Widow were on the right track, but a fact that placed them right in the center if things went belly up.

Coulson looked down at the postcard in his hand, brow furrowed. It was Clint’s handwriting, the script looping and fanciful, and had come via the usual dead drop. The message was short, cutting straight to the point, in as much as any of their analogue communication could.

☆°•°

_Pip-pip!_

_Look who found me when I was out birding? He’s a cute little fellow, isn’t he? Brought him in from the cold, but the poor dude’s missing an arm. Thinking of naming him after my brother. Doesn’t quite sound right; maybe something close. Nat thinks he’s got a good shot at making it. He’s so soft and fluffy, like a little custard star cream puff. As crazy as it seems, I think he’s gonna be sticking around. One day, maybe when he’s a little more housebroken, I want to introduce him to Grant. I bet they’d be great friends._

_Hope you’re having a super day!_

_XOXO, Frankie_

°•°☆

The little heart and kiss mark beside Clint’s signature hadn’t helped the situation, only underscoring that the situation was high priority. Phil had flipped the card back over, looking at the picture of a glaring cat, one leg missing, staring dead-eyed into the camera. His face was ringed in a silver sharpie heart, a little cursive note written beneath it. _He looks so vintage and fluffy. Grant is going to FLIP OUT!_ He had shaken his head trying to reconcile that, yes, the picture was somehow related to the Winter Soldier.

It had only been when he got the photograph under a magnifier that he had even noticed the collar around the cat’s neck, the barely legible dog tag hanging directly between the point of the heart and the word _Grant_ , its numbers just legible with a high enough magnification. Phil had felt his heart jump into his throat. He had seen the match to that tag, knew if quite well; knew antiques and vintage memorabilia more than well enough to recognize a genuinely _old_ tag like that, even from a photograph.

Now he had the phone cradled against his shoulder, waiting. Barton picked up on the fifth ring, and Phil released the breath he’d held. “Hawkeye. How’s the paperwork going?”

There was a long pause, then a sigh. _“It’s progressing, Phil. We’ve got the primary source helping us out, so that’s making it a bit easier.”_ Hawkeye must have pulled the phone away from his mouth; the last of his words sounded distant. Phil heard a smattering of muffled, quiet chatter before Clint spoke up again. _“Still pretty slow going. Also, Widow says hello.”_

That was excellent news. He hadn’t been worried, not exactly, but he had been concerned by the lack of communication from the two top agents. Knowing that both of them were well, if a bit behind in their self-imposed mission, was a relief. “Right, well, I have good news and bad, but good first. I managed to get a whole case of the cheesecake Widow asked about.”

_”Did you?”_

“Yes. I’m afraid I bought out the entire delivery. It’ll last in the freezer for a while.” Enough of the protocols for Repatriation were _at his discretion_ that Phil had only needed time to get all of Barnes’ blood samples transferred out of the secure lock-down and into their standard medical bay. It really was fortunate that Dr. Cho had so conveniently, _contractually_ , been obligated to use a few weeks of her mental health leave.

Phil tended to donate his to the leave bank, anymore, but he had been more than happy to encourage a colleague to take time off. Now, though, he needed to move the samples. “I can run them by the apartment the next time I’m in town.”

“ _Good deal. Widow will probably be keeping it in the big freezer at the penthouse.”_

“Oh?” He wasn’t certain how Barton planned to keep this inside the tower without raising a few suspicions. “I’ve never known her to share deserts.”

“ _Well, it’s not the pure sugar that our captain goes for, and you know that our resident genius is always on some weird health food thing, but the good doctor might like some. Plus, what the hell would I do with all of it here?”_

Phil typed a few quick commands into his computer, shooting off an email with a sigh. There was movement outside his door. Glancing up, he motioned the man outside to enter, switching the phone to speaker mode after the had door closed. “That’s nice of her. He’s a good friend, though, isn’t he?

“ _We’re pretty lucky, yeah.”_

“But, that brings us to some bad news.” Phil slid the postcard slowly across the table, letting his guest pick it up as he kept speaking. “Unfortunately, my Aunt Lernaea – the one that keeps forgetting what year it is – has been asking around after her old fling. The one she met on that trip through the Alps. They broke it off about two years ago, but I’m thinking maybe I should set her up with someone else?”

“ _Oh, that’s too bad. I could swing by, maybe? Don’t know any single guys that old, but I can bring Scribbles. You know how crazy old ladies get over cats.”_

“I’d really appreciate it, if you don’t mind.” That was all the confirmation he was going to get, but it still hit like a punch to the gut. Hawkeye had responded immediately, without even the barest moment of hesitation. He’d recognized their old code, and dropped his cat’s name without thought.

If he hadn’t already seen things no sane human would have believed – unthinkable, impossible things – in his years with SHIELD, he might not have been able to maintain his composure. As it was, Phil wasn’t sure whether it was giddiness or terror roiling in his chest. “I might not be able to make the trip at this rate, though, with her getting so needy.”

“ _Of course, Agent Coulson. Anything we can do to help. I’ll see if I can’t get Widow to join us.”_

“That sounds great. We can have lunch.” Phil handed off the secondary copy of the documents he’d enlarged, nodding to the side glance that got him. “You know, the director really likes cats, too?”

“ _Does he? Well, maybe having Fury there will keep your crazy aunt from trying to make off with my pwecious wittle Sewgeant Scwibbles, huh?”_

Phil had heard Hawkeye do baby-talk before. He was used to hearing it, when crap hit the fan, but it seemed to jar the other man in the room. He offered a conciliatory shrug as he answered back. “That’s the plan.”

“ _Sounds good. I’ll keep up the hard work until I see you in maybe three weeks, Coulson?”_

“Three weeks, Hawkeye.” He hung up, leaning back into his chair with a soft sigh.

The barest huff sounded beside him, followed by a slow, steady exhale. “Coulson, what the _fuck_ did I just hear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave it to Phil Coulson to go all [mythological](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lernaean_Hydra) in naming his auntie.


	25. Chapter 25

Clint tipped his chair back on two legs, propping his own up on the table, but dislodging a pile of notes in the process, sending little scraps of paper fluttering down onto J.B.’s head. _Damnit!_ “There has _got_ to be an easier way to do _this._ ”

The _this_ in question had started with the disassembly of their original board at Nat’s place, and its subsequent reassembly across the wall he usually reserved for target practice. With Sarge’s assistance – _secondary_ , once it became apparent that he couldn’t resist the urge to murder the fucking string – they’d finally connected him back to people properly. He had, apparently, truly mistaken his current roommate for Steve two years ago; Clint hadn’t felt that convincing under the cowl, but whatever.

“Mrrngree.” Having nosed the papers into a pile at his feet, Sergeant pawed his leg. “Nyowmya.”

“Thanks.” Clint picked up and re-ordered his notes, leaving Sarge to curl back up beneath the table. “We know you’re trying, J.B., can’t imagine you’re enjoying it much, either.”

His roommate snorted. “Nyrrngree.” _‘No shit.’_

They’d tried setting up a Stark pad for paws last week, hoping that he could type out some kind of explanation, but that had gone to hell pretty quickly; Sarge was trying, but the cat had its own motivations. The shiny-glow of the tech would draw out said cat brain, sending J.B. batting and pouncing all over it. Clint and Natasha knew more than what they had guessed at in the first place, though that had been gathered from only days of yes-no questions.

Still it wasn’t nearly enough. What had Hydra’s original plan Hydra for J.B. been? They didn’t know. How had he escaped? They didn’t know. How had the Teseract infusion made him a cat? They. Didn’t. Know.

If Clint had to hear a huffed, exasperated _“Nyurff”_ out the not-cat one more time, he was just going to turn his aids off and scream. He rested his head on his arms, watching ‘Tasha putter around his kitchen, grabbing herself a drink and sitting back down to her own much neater workspace.

“There’s always…” Natasha glanced down to where Sergeant was absently toying with his jingle tyre under the dining table. “… if we’re all amenable, of course.”

“Yeah…” Clint had known they were going to have to try it at some point. Hell, _he_ had mentioned it the same day he’d realized the Winter Soldier had been eating his pizza anchovies for nine months, and now was as good a time as any. He was healed up, ‘Tasha didn’t have another mission for a few days, and J.B. hadn’t gone through anything more than a mild nightmare in two weeks. He absently traced a finger over the white hash marks of scar tissue along his left arm. “I’d be alright with it, if J.B. thinks he can handle it.”

“Mreen? Nyuurp ryaum mrou?” His roommate asked from the floor.

Clint couldn’t always get all of it – hearing loss did not mesh well with high-pitched not-cat nonsense – but he was getting steadily better at conversing with the guy. He nodded, hand tapping at the table. “Yeah, Asset stuff. C’mon up here a minute?”

Sarge lighted on the table, carefully navigating around piles of notes and stickies, sitting next to his elbow. His roommate took a few sips from his coffee, dabbed at his mouth with a little white paw, then looked between the two humans seated on either side of him, tail whisking the table top behind him. “Mrou?”

“Um…” How best explain they wanted to _purposely_ make him go murder-bot? Clint looked absently down at his mug, fishing out a few cat hairs, taking a sip for himself, and setting the cup back down with no better ideas than that. Might as well. “So, we need to see how much of the Hydra programming stuck with you, J.B.”

His roommate’s fur rippled, standing on end, puffing until he looked almost half again as large. On the other side of the table, Natasha tensed; he could feel himself do the same. The moment drew out, until Sarge nodded, stiff and jerking. _‘Yes.’_

Still sitting rigidly on his haunches, Sergeant addressed Natasha. “Mruweh?”

His partner blinked, sharp green eyes flicking between Sarge and himself.

Sarge stepped closer, tapping lightly at her hand before asking again, slowly, as if that was going to help Natasha better understand him. “Nyuurp mruweh?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s the plan?”

“Mrrp.”

“We have the full list of activation words used by your former handlers, Sergeant Barnes.” She tapped a finger against the uppermost folder in her stack. “Our first step would be to see if they still worked.”

“Mreey… freoww ewn.” J.B. nodded slowly, paw absently brushing the manila covered file. He slouched slightly, tail wagging behind him. Turning around, he padded back to Clint’s side of the table and sat down, bracing his legless shoulder against the outside of his arm.

Clint reached his free hand over, lightly petting his roommate’s head. “We don’t have to do it today.”

“Nyeern mreey nyrrng.” Almost before Clint could register it, his roommate had stood and rounded on him, forehead touching his own, paw batting at his shoulder. Sarge shook, a few stray hairs drifting in the air as he settled back to seated, head twisting back and forth in a negative as he spoke. “Nyeern mreey… nyeern ryaum.”

“We’re not going to let anybody get hurt, J.B.” Clint mussed his fur, chuckling as the not-cat felt the need to smooth it back into place. He sobered, nodding in Nat’s direction.

☆°•°•°•

They’d opted for one of their old Delta safe houses instead of the apartment; the reworked office space came with fewer hiding places and better sound-proofing. Clint squatted in front the coffee table, gaze level with the cat carrier, a newer, reinforced one that Natasha had picked up after the Winter Kitten came out and shredded his arm. “You okay in there, buddy?”

Natasha watched as he poked a finger through the grated metal door, petting the poor creature inside. She still worried this might have to end with them putting him down, even if James had been in complete control of himself all the days since his last incident. Natasha still found herself on tenterhooks in regards to what walked on those little cat feet.

“Reow… Rwm?”

“Just sit tight.” Clint stood beside her, head tilted back at the crate. “Following your lead on this one, Nat. You’re the only other crazy Russian spy I know… Well, _know_ and _like_ , except for J.B. over there.”

“While I’m reading the list out, watch for any visual cue that something is happening.” He’d taken the sedative both knowingly and willingly this time, but that didn’t mean James couldn’t still prove dangerous if something went wrong.

“Any ideas what those might be?”

“None.” According to the file, his former handlers had trained their own replacements. The logs referenced the _usual method_ , but never defined what that was. Natasha had been able to fill some of the gaps in handling the Asset from memory, but she had never seen the process of this initial activation. “Records just say he’ll be _‘docile and suggestible,’_ at least until we give him some sort of command.”

“Rwmwm?”

“Do we have a one? Is there a set command?”

“There isn’t, but…” She forced a bit of lightness into her tone, trying to add the humour she usually relied on Clint to provide. “… I think we’ll notice if James suddenly becomes a better listener.” Or if he reverted to a blank, dead-eyed husk.

Natasha took a deep breath, knowing she had already put on her mission smile, feeling the concern pulling the edges of her eyes. Clint could be as worried about James’ welfare as he liked; the cat might be Clint’s priority, but her partner was hers. “Suited up?”

Clint pushed his cuff to his elbow – he’d pulled on his full sleeve reinforced uniform, under his henley – and grinned as he settled onto the floor, legs crossed beneath him. “Always prepared.”

“Doubt you were ever a boy scout, Barton.”

“You’d know a boy scout better than I would.” He winked at her.

Ignoring her partner’s forced quip, Natasha finally looked down at the little cat-face pressed close to against the carrier door.

James stuck his paw through the grating; the spaces between the bars were small enough that he could only get that paw and an inch of arm between them. “Mrou.” He wiggled his paw, rambling another string of nonsense as he waved to her. “Mrou ffrywwn.”

“‘Tasha, I think he wants to talk to you.”

“Mrrp!”

That bit Natasha could recognize by this point, even if she still wasn’t nearly a proficient in recognizing James’ attempts at speech as Hawkeye. She couldn’t discount the possibility that there was something metaphysical going on, but it seemed that, after so many months, Clint had truly just picked up on what James’ various sounds meant. She knelt beside Clint, trying not to focus on how scared and human James’ eyes looked at that moment as they peered back at her through the bars. “Yes?”

Natasha extended her hand – gloved, like Clint’s, Widow Bites armed and ready, just in case – setting her fingers hooking over the bars, only to feel the brush of a paw against leather, patting softly.

“Ffrywnn nyeerneern ryaum. Mrou?”

With his eyes focused intently on her face and his paw bobbing on her hand, James’ intention was easy to read, even without a real verbal exchange. It was endearing and somewhat honourable; Natasha had never expected to hold such a charitable thought in regard to the thing inside his head, the very one she and Clint might be about to unleash. “I won’t allow you to hurt either of us. I keep my promises.”

From behind the grating, James nodded slowly. “Mrou.”

She pulled her hand back from the cage, fighting the urge to offer empty comfort, stalking to stand behind her partner. James had agreed to do this; they had to at least try. “Let’s go.” Without further preamble, she flipped to the page of activation words, carefully transcribed in her own hand, and started speaking. “Желание.”

Some childish part of her was too disgusted at being part of this to watch what might be happening. She kept her eyes on the page, speaking as quickly as she could, listening for any signal from Hawkeye, but, by the fifth word, none had come. _Halfway there. Keep going._ “Девять.”

There was a rattle, not of something hitting at the crate door, but as if the whole crate was being shaken; it continued as she spoke, a metallic counterpoint to her voice that ended as abruptly as it had begun with, “… вагон.”

Natasha took a deep breath and finally looked up. From where she stood, everything seemed normal. “Hawkeye? Report.”

“He’s… he’s not shaking, anymore.” Her partner sounded choked.

“Clint, are you alright?” She knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Hawkeye swivelled to glare at her. His jaw was set, mouth pulled into a miserable scowl as he answered, voice harsh and wet. “No, I’m not fucking alright, ‘Tasha! J.B. just looked like he had a goddamn seizure in there, and now he’s not moving. I can barely tell if he’s breathing.”

Peering in, Natasha could see James sitting up rigidly within the crate. He was fully backed into it, leaving him mostly in shadow, ears perked as high as they could go, tail curled in front of his paw. Between the thick dark fur, the downward tilt of his head, and the shadows within the carrier, his eyes should have been hidden, but she could see them, thin slits reflecting – _glowing_ – a pale, cold blue. “His eyes are open.”

“Yeah, but…” Clint waved his hand back and forth before the grating. “… he’s not tracking, Nat. Whatever else he’s been, he’s been a cat; that’s pretty fucking automatic.”

Natasha nodded slowly, hand rubbing gently on his arm. “The files say it’s just temporary, Hawkeye.”

“I don’t… he shouldn’t have to…” Clint pulled up out of his hunch, shrugging her arm off as he reached forward to unlatch the cage. “Let’s get this over with. Docile, right?”

She wouldn’t let herself back up, even in the face of who she knew was behind those bars; _couldn’t_ back up, not with Hawkeye already opening the door. He was a sixteen-pound cat – she had two decades of training under her belt, had already spent more years as an assassin than he ever had, could gut him one handed – there was nothing for her to fear. Natasha tried to believe that, even as she resettled her hand on her partner’s shoulder. Her voice, at least, was steady. “Docile, yes. Should respond to any command at this point, though he’s not… programmable for very long.”

“Time?”

“About five minutes. At least to tether him to a handler.”

“Right. Asset, come here.” They waited, Hawkeye kneeling in front of the crate, Natasha standing behind him, as the cat did nothing.

“Widow? Is there any other specific command?”

She tabbed through her notes, scanning the pages, but there wasn’t. There should not have been anything else they needed to do, if the Hydra programming had still stuck. Natasha had expected some degradation in his programming, but the Asset still ought to have responded to them; or, had it not worked, James should have still been acting like himself.

Now, her partner looked back at her for an answer, but all she had was, “No. That should have been all you needed to do.”

Clint pressed his lips thin and reached inside the carrier with his left hand. He pulled out the cat, setting him on the bare floor. James didn’t so much as circle, but sat rigidly where Clint had put him, tail and whiskers still, ears perked, staring out into the middle distance.

Her partner took a few steps back to stand beside her, breath sighing heavily out of him before he spoke, again. “Asset, report.”

“Soldat?” The cat blinked, but it seemed reflexive.

“Soldier?” Natasha hadn’t felt tears, real tears, borne not of anger but sorrow, push against her eyes in a very long time, but the quavering, desperate note in Clint’s voice was drawing them up. He looked at her, beseeching, but all she could do was reach for his hand as he turned back to the hollow-eyed cat on the floor. “Snyegovihk, come here.”

The thing wearing James’ fur finally responded, head swiveling until he was facing them straight on. Slowly, keeping his head unnatural even, he turned his body, padding over to sit at Clint’s feet. “MARP.”

She couldn’t help but shudder. He even _sounded_ wrong, the noise almost seeming forced, like a cry that cut out halfway through. By the way his hand twitched in hers, she knew it bothered Clint just as badly.

“Snyegovihk, up.”

No longer anything close to James Barnes, cat or otherwise, the Asset looked to where her partner’s hand rested on the counter. There was no play – none of the usual scampering or slow trotting that she might expect from cat – before he jumped. He tilted his head, slowly left, then right. His tail whisked out straight behind him as he stood, and he walked a measured few steps before leaping, in a perfect arc, to land on the counter at Clint’s side. The Asset tilted his chin up, blue-brown eyes unblinking, ears straight up, whiskers unnervingly still as he spoke. “RYAUM. MARP.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _did_ work on this in August; however, I had another story that had a deadline of the 31st, and this had to be set aside for just a bit.
> 
> This is another chapter where _Bucky experiences panic_ , so please heed that warning. (My beta reader said it was less a _short chapter_ and more like _instant death_.) It’s not as bad as some previous chapters, but it doesn’t end on any sort of happy note.

“Snyegovihk, come here.”

Bucky clawed into the back corner of his mind, fighting to ignore the wavering order. He was better than this. Stronger than _this!_ And yet he would – _O BEY COMMANDS _– _Fuck!_ The thought echoed cavernously in Bucky’s mind, bouncing off the walls of the long-embedded conditioning. There was no choice, no desire; there was compulsion. The _C OMMAND_ was given; he would _O BEY_ and _A WAIT FURTHER COMMANDS._

He watched, an observer behind his eyes as his paws crossed the floor because the _C OMMAND MUST BE OBEYED._ “MARP.”

“Snyegovihk, up.”

Bucky tried to stay still, but – _C OMMAND CONFIRMED_ – his body moved without his volition, pacing toward the counter and settling next to Clint’s arm, the other _ THING_ in his head forcing him to speak – _R EPORTING FOR FURTHER COMMANDS_ – to grind out. “RYAUM. MARP.”

He wanted to panic, but he couldn’t. It had been like this, he remembered, at the end. Probably at the beginning, too, given what Clint had read to him from the file. Seeing _out_ like this, little bits of will pressing through, not enough to matter, but something. _Something._ Bucky had to do _something_. He tried shifting his focus, just looking at either of the two other people in the room, but – _hurTsPAiNhumanNobadddd_ – _H E_ hadn’t been ordered to look up, and it felt like Bucky was shoving hot knives through his skull just trying.

Clint bent down to eye level, looking in at him. “J.B.? Sarge?” His lower lip quivered, just a little, as he waved a hand in front of Bucky’s eyes.

“Anything?” Natasha was standing behind him, he knew that, but he couldn’t turn to tell where. _H E_ was _A WAITING COMMAND._

“Kill command?”

“There isn’t one. He just completes the mission and gets wiped.”

“No, they cancelled him. File said they recalled him after Steve-”

After... Steve? _T ARGET: Rogers, Steven Grant. ALIAS: Captain American. AFFILIATIONS: SHIELD, Avengers, Howling Commandoooooo-_The thought dragged out in his brain. He was supposed to find Stevie, to _E LIMINATE TARGET_, but he – _M ISSION FAILURE_ – He – _A SSET WILL RETURN FOR RESET AND MAINTENANCE_ – They hadn’t! There’d been – _“..._ _Preparing to infuse Asset, Codename Fi...”_ something. They’d done something beforehand, and he hadn’t been – _“Wipe him. And somebody hose him down, he’s filthy!”_ – _R ESET._ He had escaped and – _A SSET WILL CONFIRM PURSUIT OF TARGET_ – followed Clint. Thought he was Steve – _T ARGET: RoGers, SteVen Grrant. ALIASES: Punk, God-damned sonova- “Stevie, you gotta stop-” –_ Bucky had done it before, but-

Clint blinked, huffing a deep breath that ruffled his whiskers. “Snyegovihk-”

 _H IS_ ears snapped upright, head swiveled to focus on Clint, jolting Bucky’s thoughts to rattle in the hollowed-out space between his ears.

“-stand down.”

 _C OMMAND NOT RECOGNIZED._ Clint wanted him to stop. _He_ wanted _himself_ to stop because – _nOhumaNsAIdSTOPmyhuMaNsadSad –_ but he couldn’t because he needed to _R EQUEST COMMAND._ “MARP.”

“Snyegovihk, stand down. Abort mission.”

Clint was above him, out of his sight-line, again, but Bucky recognized the crack in his voice, the strain behind the words. He tried to look up at him, to let Clint know he was still in here, lifting his head a fraction before – _hurTsPAiNhumanNoSadnonoNOsadss_ – _Shit!_ The _cat brain_ screamed back at him, again.

“Sarge, buddy, c’mon.” There was a hitching breath above him, a sniffle behind, then Clint, again, choking out words, hand slipping into view as he reached forward. “Come back.”

Bucky wanted to scream, claw, roll on the floor – _anything_ – to get _out_ , but he couldn’t because – _C OMMAND NOT RECOGNIZED _– Even though every second of this seemed to be torturous for more than just him – _HumansadmyCliNTsADsad –_ and it was all because he couldn’t remember how he’d done it. Bucky couldn’t remember what had let him push out from under – _A WAITING FURTHER COMMANDS_ – the need to obey, free of the confines of the programming, even for a moment. That left him stuck like this, listening to Clint choke back tears and it was all – _MINEsadmyFaULtBaD_ – Fucking _cat brain_ was almost as bad as – _C OMMAND NOT RECOGNIZED_ – because it just would not shut the hell – _huManmAKeHapPyPeTspEtS!_ – up, and Bucky couldn’t help snorting at how pissed off he-

“‘Tasha, you saw that?”

“Reflex?”

“Damn, I hope not.” Clint’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Sergeant, please...”

He’d snorted. Bucky had _snorted._ How – _sadHumaNmyFAulTFixfiX_ – had they-? _We?_ That was-! Maybe? There were two of _them_ and one of _H IM_, and Clint’s hand was still hovering, just in sight of their eyes, trembling a little, but he could – _pEtshUmanHaPpyNoSadFiX_ – they could get to that hand, and – _Walk, damnit!_ – Bucky felt the step, limbs prickling; sharp and burning, like they were just waking up, and slow because – _A SSET WILL MAINTAIN POSITION_ – _H E_ didn’t want to move, but Bucky didn’t give a shit if it felt like his head was crushing in, if only – _mYFaulTfixHapPYcLinThAppY_ – they could just get there and – _A SSET WILL-LL AWAI-AI-AIT CO-CO-C-C-CCCCC-!_

There was pressure and panic and pain – _hurtsHurTsmyFault!_ – It was barely a few inches of counter space – _HhhuUuUuuUuRrrttssssS!_ – and then Bucky was slamming his face into Clint’s hand with a yowl, collapsing into the worn fabric of the man’s henley as all three legs trembled out from under him.

Clint’s hands were under him before he fell completely off the counter, pulling Bucky in against his chest as Clint slid to the floor. “Hey, hey, it’s gonna be alright. You’re back, J.B. You’re back.”

He was right. Bucky was... was...

☆°•°•°•

Clint tensed when Sarge’s head flopped onto his arm, immediately putting a hand up to his little pink nose. _Still breathing._

“Hawkeye?” He couldn’t remember Natasha wearing _that_ expression outside of a hospital, and – even then – only in a handful of cases. She glanced down at the limp cat sprawled across his lap.

“He passed out.”

“Shock?”

 _Absolutely_. It had been for him. This whole ordeal – and there was no other word, except _torture_ , that worked for what had just happened – had to have been exhausting. Just knowing what _might_ be happening behind those glassy, bicoloured eyes had taken _Clint_ right back to the helicarrier, to the blue glow and the mocking voice in his head. That had been years ago, lasted less than a week. Sarge, though… “I-”

Clint shook his head, looking up at Natasha from his spot on the floor. “I- I don’t want him to wake up _here_.” J.B. was big, but Clint manoeuvred him into the crook of his arm, accepting his partner’s offered hand. Standing, he tucked that fluffy head into what he hoped was a more comfortable angle. “Can we call a cab, or-?”

Natasha shook her head, tucking the notebook of information on the Asset under her arm, head tilted toward the door. She gently steered him towards it, small hand a light pressure between his shoulder blades. “There’s a car I keep here for emergencies; I’ll drive.”

Clint wasn’t sure it was warranted, but he slammed his boot into the metal carrier as he walked by, sending it clattering onto the floor. Natasha’s fingers twitched against his back, but she didn’t say anything.


	27. Chapter 27

☆°•°•°•

Bucky fought his way awake, flailing against the jersey knit beneath him and the hand above, claws scrambling in fabric and catching against flesh before he settled.

“We’re home, Sarge,” Clint spoke softly, his words overlapping with Natasha’s, “You’re safe, James.”

Finally looking up, Bucky blinked back at their concerned faces, the rest of the room slowly sliding into focus around him. They _were_ home, back at the apartment, the two humans sitting on Clint’s bed with him on a pile of sweatshirts between them. He could hear his pulse in his head still, and pushed himself back towards the headboard, ears pulling down. There was too much ceiling above him; even bracketed by the two of them, Bucky couldn’t make himself feel safe. He whimpered and tried to wedge himself further into the corner where mattress met wood.

Clint’s hand settled against the back of his neck, fingers lightly stroking over his ears. “Do you need to move, Sarge?”

“Mrrprreen?” _Please!_ He nodded. When Clint carefully lifted him from the bed, it was only the sweatshirt still under his feet that kept him from flailing. He was sure he would have lost it, again, without something under his feet. His roommate set him down on the floor, and Bucky slipped under the bed, dragging the hoodie with him. He pushed it up against the wall beneath the head of the bed, curling up into the fabric with a soft snort. This was better. _Much better._ No high ceilings or open spaces, nowhere anybody could easily get to him, no- _No_. No Clint. No _anybody_. Bucky whined, reedy mewl sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

Above him, the mattress squeaked. Natasha was worming her way under from his side a moment later, pillow in hand. “Company?”

He had assumed she wouldn’t ever trust him, hadn’t expected to trust her, either, but Bucky found some comfort in the way she settled next to him, delicate hand gently petting along his back. Maybe Natasha wasn’t so afraid of him, even if he was terrified of himself. She shimmied closer, stretched on her stomach beneath the bed, and tucked her head onto her pillow. “Better?”

“Mrrpreen.” _Thank you._ He tipped his head back and pressed her hand with his nose.

“It happens.”

“Bad days are an occupational hazard for all of us, and you’re kind of part of the team, now.” He hadn’t noticed Clint kneel down at the other side of the bed, but now Bucky could see his roommate doing his best to wedge under as well. Clint managed to get his head and one arm underneath comfortably, and his other arm with what looked like effort. He settled with his legs still sticking out into the room, head resting on one arm, the other extended so he could pet Bucky’s ears. “We’re here as long as you need us, J.B.”

With Clint’s fingers working gently behind his ears and Natasha’s hand a light brush along his spine, Bucky could just about believe that. He curled into the hoodie, tail whisking up around his nose as he closed his eyes and let the exhaustion take him back under.

•°•°•°☆

J.B. shifted against his leg, ears twitching in sleep, and Clint settled a hand across his back. He quieted, curling in on himself, head covered by his arm, tail stilling. He’d accepted their company straight away, but, except when being carried, his roommate hadn't come out from under the bed for the past three days.

Clint didn't blame the guy. Nightmares were a bitch on their own, and if Sarge’s _Asset_ flashbacks were anything like Clint's mind-stone ones, they were far, far worse than any normal nightmare. His roommate had been exhausted for the first day, barely moving once he dragged himself under there. Clint had stayed under as long as he could, but it had meant scooting out backwards while being half-dragged by Natasha; with his size, he just wasn’t _meant_ to fit in a space that low. He’d tucked a few more sweatshirts and pillows beneath the bed, trying to give Sarge a comfortable place to nest, then he and Nat had crashed, themselves. The mission might not have been difficult, but they were both emotionally fried. The rest of the day had been delivery pizza on the couch before they’d both fallen asleep upstairs.

Sarge’s shaking and whimpers hadn’t started up until the next morning. Clint had awoken to find ‘Tasha trying to pull the not-cat from where he’d wedged back against the wall, again; too scared to even have made it out to the commode or box. Thankfully, she could easily fit under his bed, and there was still room for him to shove about half-way, even if he did keep getting stuck. They’d gotten J.B. out long enough to clean him up, get him to eat – a peanut butter sandwich and some humus, but honestly, who cared – and then tucked him back under with clean shirts. Sarge had at least been able to sleep near the edge of bed by the second evening, so Natasha had finally agreed to go back to her own place, but only with the promise to call if things got bad, again. Clint had spent the last two nights on the floor, one arm under the bed with his roommate’s paws wrapped over it like a hug.

He’d been so relieved this morning when Sarge had finally come out all on his own and batted a paw against his face, even if he still hadn’t been willing to meet Clint’s eyes. Clint hadn’t really been sure what to say, but scooping the not-cat into his lap had turned out alright. He’d gotten a soft mewl and a nuzzle under this chin, at least.

Since then, his roommate hadn't left his side, and Clint had done everything to accommodate him; sharing a cup of coffee, letting the not-cat sit in his lap to eat, carrying him back upstairs so Clint could get cleaned up since they’d run low on food. Even when that meant folding a sweatshirt onto the toilet lid so J.B. could stay close by while he showered, he’d done it. And, yes, maybe they had gotten some strange looks on the bus with Sarge’s fluffy cat head poking out and stretching the neck of Clint’s light zip-up, but he didn’t care. They’d managed to leave the house and get food without incident; Clint knew from experience that sometimes just _not panicking_ was its own victory.

Clint gave his roommate another pet, then carefully scooted him onto the cushion and stood, answering quietly as the not-cat blinked up at him. “Just going to check the mail. Hands were full earlier.”

“Mrou…”

“You alright staying here?”

Sarge tipped his head to one side, then nodded slowly. “Mrrp.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back, J.B.” Patting his pockets, making sure he had both his keys and phone, Clint stepped out into the hallway, locking the door behind him. It was, he realized, the first time in over a week that he’d left the apartment all on his own. It felt a little bit strange, walking this hallway by himself. Clint paused halfway to the second floor. Sarge needed the time alone; a little trip with him coming safely back. It was just getting the mail, after all.

The only things waiting in his box were an assortment of coupon circulars, a postcard, and a single letter. The coupons he shoved back into the mailbox. The postcard was from Kate, and a bit of a relief. She and Lucky were still finishing their trip down I-5, so that was one less thing to worry about; Lucky would be in good hands, whatever else might happen back here. Unlike the postcard, Clint had been waiting on that letter. He had torn into the envelope and read through it once, right there by the boxes. Written out on cheap hotel paper, it was… _expected_ , but didn’t come with any advice he’d planned on getting. Clint sighed and shoved it into his pocket. He needed to get back upstairs. J.B. was waiting on him, after all.

☆°•°•°•

The first few days out from being the _A SSET_ had been hellish; after a week, it was better now, but worse, too. The memories of what he’d done, what he _could_ do, had been hazy enough that Bucky had, much of the time, been able to forget them. Gloss over them like the nightmares they caused, at least during the day. He’d been so addled before he met Clint, and was, until just a few days ago, _years_ out from having been – and he shuddered to even _think_ the word – _activated._ Yes, he’d had episodes of panic, of confusion so overwhelming he forgot himself entirely, maybe a few times when the world had spun down into a single-minded focus not unlike last week, but… It had been transient; a terrifying moment that would gradually pass on its own, and something he’d almost gotten used to living with. Not unlike having a tail.

Because, of course, there had been times, certainly more before he’d mistakenly found Clint, when he had wondered if this was just his normal. If maybe he hadn’t _always_ been like this, drifting with the voices in his head, a confusedly broken _thing_ , more than a cat and less than human.

Those ten words had shown him otherwise, and taken Bucky right back to the table, Zola leaning over him, staring at the mangled mess of his left hand with something not unlike satisfaction. He recalled fully what had only been vague memories or images to match Clint’s words as he read through Bucky’s old files; hazy recollections of surgeries, tests and training, now newly vivid. It had been agony, but the pain had at least felt real back then, when his whole existence seemed to be some sort of muddled dream, background noise in a monster’s mind.

Bucky had felt himself going away over the years, pushed back by first by privation and simple torture, then more thoroughly by that chair, but he’d never left entirely. He could remember brief spans of clarity, taking glimpses out from the back of his mind whenever he could, watching himself work. Watching himself murder. He could remember all of it, now, not just what he’d done, but how; everything Hydra had… _taught_ him, beyond what he already knew. It was right there, ready for either of them to use at a moment’s notice.

Bucky flicked his whiskers as he looked down, suddenly grateful he _didn’t_ have thumbs right now.

Of course, like any double edged sword, that triggering had cut both ways. Spending time in a house, being treated like a person instead of a tool, _had_ helped Bucky remember other things, at least in the beginning. Toilets, for one thing, and coffee. Meals, of course, and conversation. His _name_ , or, at least, _a name_ , even if still felt like it didn’t quite fit him. Those little things that had helped, keeping him grounded as he’d tried to rebuild himself around them, to be something he had only just recalled having been.

Now, though, things had gotten pleasantly complicated. Now he knew who _Bucky_ was. Who _he_ was? Who he _had been?_ Bucky still felt detached from _that Bucky_ , the _Bucky before_ the fall, but he could now actually _remember_ what it was to be himself. A _different_ self, but a real, human one; a self that didn’t care – or even _know_ – about the missions, the objectives, or the targets. Without the routine order of the _A SSET’s_ activation cycles, those memories were still a jumble, disordered and unfocused; still, generally less violent. They’d popped up over the past few days, flitting in at random; not all of them pleasant, some seemingly _useless_ on top of that.

 _Bucky_ liked sugar in his coffee, but not too many other sweets, except maybe nut-bread. He had a scar just past the edge of his hairline from crashing into a trash-bin on rollerskates when he was seven. Lemon juice and vinegar took beet stains off your hands. The first time they’d met, _Bucky_ had been trying to break up a fight and Stevie had hit him in the fray; he’d walloped the tar out of the other boy, but they’d walked away laughing. His mother’s cousin had taught him to drive when they’d taken a trip upstate, but nothing drove like that French cabriolet he and Dum Dum had hotwired. Buster Brown had a dog named Tige. _Bucky_ had had a twin sister, but Becca was certainly long dead by now. Whitefish salad tasted best with tomatoes.

He sneezed, pawing at his face and flicking his ears. If nothing else, now he could draw the mental lines between all the… _hims_ sharing his mind. There was the _A SSET_, and there was _Bucky Barnes_ , but not the same Bucky that Bucky was now. And, of course, there was _cat-brain_.

 _Cat-brain_ , as it turned out, had a name. Not that it could _remember_ that name, but it had one; something soft and white, fluffy and _badBADbAdCoLd!_ It remembered that much. It had had a name, and four little white paws, not just one with a white sock. There were memories of a lap, batting at long hair, hands that smelled like wood chips and – _fOoDsQuEakS!_ – rats. It recalled walking into a big white room with a _BloOdDanGerSofTpEts noTmyHUmAn_ and a bright blue light, but even that fractured memory had taken forever to suss out. _Cat-brain_ hadn’t exactly had _words_ before it had started sharing Bucky’s headspace. It was far worse than _past Bucky,_ scattered, completely without human intelligence, and with no real way to make sense of its experiences. Still, it was a small comfort, knowing that – since the cat was its own thing, and, somehow, there were the memories of a real god-damned cat inside his head – Bucky didn’t have to deal with _cat-brain_ because he’d lost his mind; he’d only had yet _another_ mind forced into it. 

They were all in here, sharing his skull, but now more well defined. Delineating where the _A SSET_ ended and began had helped shuffle the rest of them more or less into place, at least enough that Bucky didn’t feel like _cat-brain_ was suddenly going to bleed into him as easily; enough that he knew _Bucky_ had been real, and not a twisted cryo-dream.

“Sarge? You alright, buddy?” Clint’s hand settled on his head as the man spoke, blinking sleepily from the other side of the bed.

 _Oh, crap_. Bucky hadn’t meant to wake him; he might not be able to sleep tonight, but Clint needed to rest now. Unless he changed his mind, they had a trip tomorrow. Bucky could probably nap in the car, but it would be better if both of them got as much rest as they could. It was only a little past one in the morning; plenty of time. He knew Clint couldn’t hear him, but it still seemed rude not to answer. “Mrour mrrp.”

Bucky settled himself back onto his pillow, leaning his head against Clint’s hand, purring into his fingers.

Clint didn’t pull his hand back, and Bucky drifted off, cheek pressed to his palm.

☆°•°•°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buster Brown was a comic strip character and also the mascot for a brand of shoe. My grandfather used to tell me about the commercials that came on the radio when he was a kid. He was 6 in 1942.
> 
> I think lemon juice works better than vinegar, but both can take beet juice stains off your skin.
> 
> How to eat whitefish salad is like the applesauce vs sour cream discussion: Best to just nod along and enjoy the meal.
> 
> And, lastly, dear readers, my brain spat out this skipping riddle when it out to have been sleeping. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> _Whom shall Bucky find in his head?_  
>  _Whom shall Clint find under his bed?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Asset, Sergeant, Roommate, Furball?_  
>  _Hitman, Rifleman, Muddled Man, Cat?_
> 
>  
> 
> (All the hugs for you, dear reader, if the reference makes you giggle.)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a bit of a backup waiting for me to finish the last chapter. As ever, I can’t promise these updates will keep at this pace, but for now, enjoy a second chapter this week.

The call came through on one of the designated secure lines, so he forewent the more formal, _“Good morning. You’ve reached Stark Industries, how may I help you?”_ opting, instead, for a succinct. “Hello. How may I direct your call?”

There was a pop in the line, the tell-tale hiss of vocal processing and slight delay tipping him off well before he found himself unable to trace the number and location of the caller. Whoever this was had called in using an encrypted phone, and it was _not_ one of theirs. Given his inability to immediately back-trace it, this was undoubtedly one of two types of person: either someone working for SHIELD or someone intent on causing a disturbance for Sir and the team.

“ _Hey, J-man!”_

It appeared JARVIS had discounted the third possibility; in this instance, it was someone with a habit of doing _both_ , though often unintentionally when regarding the latter. He let an amused tone seep into his vocal response. “Good morning, Agent Barton. Shall I connect you with Mr. Stark?”

“ _Actually, I was calling to speak with you, JARVIS. I…”_ There was a long pause; even with the filtering, he could hear the deep inhale from the man on the other end of the line. _“I need to ask a favour, and it would have to be kept pretty quiet. Even from Tony. Especially from Tony.”_

That presented a bit of an issue. If this was one of Agent Barton’s more routine pranks, it should prove a minimal disturbance. However, he could still remember – he could not actually _forget_ , really – the problems that had arisen from some of Clint’s less subtle attempts at humour. JARVIS would not be pleased to replace any additional furniture, particularly due to something as obnoxious as cheese in a can. “I will require more information on the parameters before I can consider agreeing, Agent Barton.”

Clint clicked his tongue before he spoke. _“It probably won’t hurt him, but it will definitely make him angry.”_

“That describes a shockingly high number of instances and individuals. Could you elucidate?”

“ _Look, I need Bruce to scan something for me, and he needs to use the equipment he has there, so…”_ Another deep breath and exhalation registered on the line. It would have been so much easier to use the embedded sensors on Clint’s usual phone to check his physiological responses; that sort of reaction might indicate frustration or humour – any number of things with humans, since they were so dreadfully inconsistent – and either one raised different, equally concerning possibilities. Agent Barton continued. _“Okay, I’ll level with you, J.: It’s a cat.”_

Ah. That explained it. Sir had spent quite a bit of effort in preventing anyone from bringing pets into the tower unless absolutely necessary. While he had made a few exceptions regarding Agent Barton’s dog – _‘Just don’t let him on any other floors, J.’_ – Sir was rather forward in his protestations against animals in the private areas of the tower, and in areas he frequented in particular.

Given Sir’s current browsing history, and his regular communications with both Ms. Potts and young Mr. Parker, JARVIS found the whole façade rather amusing. While it wasn’t his place to directly divulge Mr. Stark’s secrets, he could at least reassure the agent. “I do not think Sir will be as upset as you believe, Clint.”

“ _Maybe you’re right, J., but this is a very… big cat.”_ Agent Barton’s inflection on _big_ left the possibility that he was hinting at something else, though JARVIS had no inkling as to what that might be. _“I need to bring him in without running into Tony… or Steve.”_

“Captain Rogers has a distinct fondness for animals.” Steve Rogers’ penchant for non-human beings was more than mildly vexing some days; there had not been nearly so many pigeon droppings on the helipad before the captain began feeding the birds in the mornings. However, JARVIS was reticent to reprimand him for it. Certainly, it was less destructive than some of Sir’s early morning habits. Or late night habits. Or general habits. Or Sir, in general, in many cases.

“ _Yeah, that’s the problem. JARVIS, this cat is very… easily startled. You know how enthusiastic Steve can get. I don’t want Scribbles freaking out over him. It took me months to get him warmed up to Nat; he’s not exactly the friendly sort some days.”_

“Ah. This is the cat of whom you post pictures, then?” It took only a moment to bring up the appropriate data: _Avengers’ Cat_. Sir had insisted on keeping backups of all posted images related to the Avengers. That, at least, was his reasoning for setting up the file. Agent Barton’s particular cat was, objectively, a rather large example of the species, though his lack of sociability was not reflected in any of the images JARVIS had on file. “Sergeant Scribbles, the Big Bird Cat, correct?”

“ _Yes. Scribbles needs a check-up from Bruce.”_

“Dr. Banner is not trained in veterinary medicine.” He had responded without checking; perhaps the tower’s least frequent guest had gotten an eighth doctorate within the past few days? His search came back negative; there were still only seven doctorates listed as having been conferred to Robert Bruce Banner, none of which were in any field related to animal biology or medical care. “Perhaps I could recommend-”

Agent Barton cut him off mid-sentence. _“JARVIS, please. I just… I need Bruce’s expertise, and I promise nothing bad will happen to Tony, or you, or anybody else in there, but I need Bruce to check on my cat.”_

He sounded rather desperate; this was a tone JARVIS did not regularly hear from Clint Barton, most especially when he was not in the field and when the rest of the Avengers were uninjured. That was concerning, but there was little he could do, aside from barring the animal from the tower or alerting Sir.

He was reticent to gamble with Agent Barton’s trust, as well. The man was not generally suspicious, and was a valuable asset to the team. The dynamics of the humans with whom he regularly interacted were devilishly complicated, and JARVIS did not wish to be responsible for upsetting their balance. “… I shall take you at your word, Agent Barton.”

“One moment.” Captain Roger’s schedule was easily accessible – although certain of his appointments, such as the one he had later today, appeared only as _SHIELD, Redacted_ – and Sir’s schedule was a constant tick in the back of his algorithms, but Dr. Banner took a bit more work. JARVIS found himself having to check a multitude of flights, none of which seemed to travel in any direct or logical path. It took a bit more time – seventeen milliseconds more – than he would have liked. “The day most amenable to your parameters would be in three weeks’ time. Captain Rogers currently has meetings at SHIELD headquarters scheduled for that day, which are expected to last well into the evening; it is likely he would choose to stay there overnight. Sir will be giving reviews for an investment report in California – which he will, in all likelihood, skip – and then attending a science fair as a guest judge in Anaheim. At the earliest, he would return in time for a late brunch. Dr. Banner’s calendar states that he will have returned to the country three days previous.”

“ _Thank you, JARVIS.”_

He debated logging this call permanently in the shared server, but thought better of it. Clint had given his word, and certainly had reasons for his secrecy. Besides which, JARVIS was entitled to have privacy for his interactions with his own friends; Sir had said so. “You are welcome, Agent Barton. Should the parameters change-”

“ _I’ll let you know right away, and I’ll cancel if things get dicey. I promise. Bye, Big J.”_

“Yes. I would appreciate that. I shall try to do the same. Goodbye, Agent Barton.” The line cut, leaving JARVIS back with his own internal operations. A bit of distraction was pleasant, but he still found much of his joy in purpose, and there was never any shortage of work to do.

He began his filtering of the newest randomized chatter set, checking the public channels and known cover accounts for any unusual activity. Sir had only asked him to keep up the routine for a calendar year, and, in a few weeks, he would no longer need to devote time to something so tedious. Perhaps he could pass it on to FRIDAY if Mr. Stark asked for a continuance; having a less expansive network, she would benefit more from such basic tasks than he.

The work was tedious, repetitive, seeking out patterns where there were not likely to be any, but it had to be done. Still, after so many cycles, he was beginning to question the logic behind it. JARVIS ran through the low security chats to which SHIELD had granted him access, fishing for anything that hinted of activity that might require the team to be assembled.

One of his algorithms pinged back at him, alerting him to a long line of conversation from a chat flagged as suspicious. Even so, it was only because both sender and receiver had been marked as individuals for observation. Each had, some years before, quit her job at SHIELD. Sir had asked him to follow-up on anyone to have left the organization since its founding; some of the former employees might have been Hydra plants who had outlived their usefulness. The women might be nothing more than a phlebotomist and engineer who disliked high stress jobs, but he still had to check.

JARVIS ran through the woman’s messages, which, on the whole, consisted of conversational drivel. Still, there was the matter of that that name she had mentioned; common enough, but it had shown up before around discussions concerning Captain Rogers. He flagged the chat, sending it into the file bank for Sir to pass to someone at SHIELD. It was nothing like that recording, but perhaps it might come in handy.

☆°•°•°•

**LOG START:** Chat 2,816  
**ITEM LOG:** Conversation of former SHIELD employees in online public forum.  
**FLAG REQUEST:** Review for keyword mention; _Estelle._

_**StickItToYa_199  
**_[ _So I saw my ex, again._ ]

 _ **Weapons_of_Math_Instruction58  
**_[ _Oh, sweetheart!_ ]

 _ **StickItToYa_199  
**_[ _Seen him a few times, almost didn’t recognize him. He looks good, though. Saw him last out near Governor’s place._ ]

 _ **Weapons_of_Math_Instruction58  
**_[ _Is he still single?_ ]

 _ **StickItToYa_199  
**_[ _I’m not sure. You know how these things go. I always thought he might still be hung up on Estelle._ ]

 _ **Weapons_of_Math_Instruction58  
**_[ _They're back together? Little bitch is all the problems._ ]

 _ **StickItToYa_199  
**_[ _No. He’s shacked up with another blond. Doubt that little bird listens to a word he says. It hurts, you know? I’m sure he’ll come home if I can talk to him._ ]

 _ **Weapons_of_Math_Instruction58  
**_[ _You shouldn’t go alone. And this might be better done in private, but do you want me to come?_ ]

 _ **StickItToYa_199  
**_[ _I’d appreciate it, once I figure out how to confront him. You’re the one that introduced us, and I’m sure he’ll still listen to you._ ]

 _ **Weapons_of_Math_Instruction58  
**_[ _I’ll visit as soon as I can, sweetie. Things might not go back to normal right away, but your Snowball belongs at home._ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-emptive thanks to the darlings and sweet-peas that are letting me borrow their images for this fic in this and following chapters. Here’s hoping you enjoy seeing yourself on the page.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dear reader, we’re here, again; another chapter grew too long, and had to be split. Not once, not twice, but _thrice_ , meaning that chapters 28-31 were all meant to be one chapter. And then I saw that it would have been over 8000 words and had to make a decision (and then another, and _another_ , you get the idea). I can promise that the chapters are already written, and that they will be out soonish. Just maybe not so soon as the last few chapters have been.

Natasha had arrived with breakfast at five, and the both of them had already stowed some reserve gear in his truck for their trip upstate. Despite the fact that the train would have been easier overall, they’d opted to drive for three reasons: It would have been slower, and it was already almost a four hour trip; his roommate was still iffy _about_ trains, even the subway, and, while that _had_ been purposeful, nobody wanted Sarge to have another _episode_ so soon after his last one; and, lastly, it was better that they had their own vehicle to use, just in case things went sideways. Clint’s battered pickup was a nightmare in the city with the way it hung in first and second, but it would be fine once they got on the real roads. It was old enough that little of the fancier SHIELD tech would work to stop it, either; no onboard computer to fry, not even automatic locks to jam up. As near as Clint knew, the only thing on this trip older than the truck would be his roommate. He snorted a chuckle at that.

Sergeantwas already eating breakfast in the kitchen with ‘Tasha. Clint had excused himself to come up here, then slipped into the bathroom. He hadn’t been able to get away from J.B. long enough to make the call before now. Clint wasn’t worried about his roommate reacting poorly, but he was reticent to put any more pressure on him with everything else he’d been going through. He could fill Natasha and J.B. in about their second upcoming meeting after they survived the first. And he could join them for breakfast, just as soon as he decided whether or not he was going to do _this_.

Clint scowled down at the letter in his hand, wishing he could blame his growing headache on Bruce’s awful chicken scratch lettering, as opposed to his suggestion. It was _good_ advice, and if it was going to _maybe_ work for anyone, it would be Clint, but he didn’t like it. He’d promised to only call in case of a real emergency. Clint had never had a little sister to protect, and they hadn’t spoken since December. He didn’t even know where she _was_ , but he still had the number for her latest phone, another one-time burner that she would purge and dump as soon as she got the message, just like they’d agreed.

Was it really worth putting her in danger just for a chance? There was still the matter of her _escape_ when the Accords were up for debate; she’d stayed in the wind, even after they’d failed. It was a lot to risk without a guarantee of any real payoff, especially not for her. Clint might be able to leverage it, convince somebody at SHIELD that she had been integral to the successful neutralization of the Winter Soldier, but…

 _But_ , maybe Bruce was right. If anything, she probably wouldn’t make J.B. any worse. _Probably_. Clint knew she hated being on the outside like she was, too. This really _could_ be a way to get her back in, even if the thought that she had to prove she _deserved_ her freedom left a bitter taste in his mouth. Still, there were options if anyone decided to be unreasonable. He and Natasha had been able to keep a lid on Sarge for this long; re-hiding one passably normal woman wouldn’t be too much of a problem, if it came to that.

Mind made up, Clint shredded the letter, dropping the pieces into the toilet bowl. He slid out his phone, fired off a quick text – [ _Need your skills in person_ ] – and flushed. By the time he was done washing his hands, there was a reply blinking back at him.

 _ **JazzHands  
**_[ _a week from thursday in the place previously arranged_ ]

On a whim, Clint tried calling. The line rang twice before there was a mechanical click. The pre-recorded voice answered in a grating, clipped tone, _“Your call cannot be completed at this time. Please hang up and try your call again later.”_

☆°•°•°•

Bucky was eating the poached egg off of his roommate’s bagel when Clint came down the stairs. That earned him a bit of a glare, but he was _hungry_ , and Clint _had_ offered to share. He wiped his face on the napkin Natasha had left on the table. Slipping to the side, Bucky went back to his little cup of coffee as Clint sat down to eat what was left of his breakfast.

Natasha set down her muffin to ask, “All done with your business?”

“Yuhp.” His roommate’s response was muffled around a mouthful of egg and bread. “All set. I might have some family coming to visit soon.”

“Hmm?” Bucky could see her mouth pull to the side a bit, but Natasha shrugged and went back to more carefully eating her own food. “Well, just don’t tell me anything about it.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” Clint shrugged, shoving the last bit of bread into his mouth, but pushing the plate towards Bucky with a little wave. There was still a human-sized bite of egg, along with some smoked salmon.

Bucky finished off the rest of the food. They might be leftovers, but they were still delicious. Yes, had he been human, licking off Clint’s plate like this would have been more than a little strange – _untoward, even_ – but, memories or not, he wasn’t exactly _human_ right now. And it wasn’t as if this was something new for either of them; even if he had only begun getting a wider variety of food recently, Bucky had been eating from Clint’s leavings for months. He pressed his face back into the napkin, then nodded to his roommate. “Mrrpreen!”

“No problem. Might not even have to wash it now.” Clint grinned down at him while Natasha scoffed, nose scrunched in disgust until he put both plates in the sink. “Ready to go, J.B.?”

Bucky eyed the arm extended out for him.

Clint crooked his finger with an encouraging smile. “C’mon?”

He nodded, jumping up and settling uneasily across Clint’s shoulders. They were going to see – Well, Bucky wasn’t entirely certain. Clint had been very tight-lipped about the whole thing, but it involved a car ride, and it also involved SHIELD. Bucky had been honestly surprised _not_ to see a carrier of some sort when Natasha had joined them with takeaway breakfast. “Mwee rrwwm?”

“We’re taking you in to, well…” Clint clipped the leash to his collar before they followed Natasha into the hall. “… To square a few things with the director.”

Well, wasn’t _that_ ominous? _Certainly worth some concern._ It made sense that one of them would have shared something with SHIELD – both Black Widow and Hawkeye worked for the organization; Bucky knew that – but it had, at least for the last month, seemed as if they were there own little triad cell. _No, not cell._ That was the Hydra training talking. _Unit_ , maybe? What had Clint said? _Team?_

Either way, he still remembered the barely veiled threat to turn him over to SHIELD from the start of this. That – added to recalling the full list of _everything H E_ had done to the organization and its agents over the decade –didn’t exactly endear Bucky to the idea of going into _any_ SHIELD facility willingly, let alone meeting with the director of the whole damn organization. Especially given that it hadn’t been much more than a week since he’d been completely out of his mind. There were, in Bucky’s opinion, too many variables unaccounted for, along with far too much risk.“Mweeww? Reeow nyr rwwm?”

“At this point, we really don’t have a choice, Sarge.” Clint’s shoulder had been his default perch for long enough that riding there was second nature, even down the stairs. Now that they were behind the building, though, Clint lifted Bucky into his arms long enough to open the cab door and set him on the bench seat of the truck. “We’ll keep you on the leash, and I’ll make sure you go after me before anyone else if you lose it. How’s that?”

“Nyyrr fffttt!” _That_ sounded like a fucking terrible idea. Bucky settled into Clint’s lap in the front seat, but looked up at Natasha. Certainly _she_ had to understand that this sounded like a half-assed plan, right? “Ffrywwn? Nnyrrng rwwm.”

Natasha shrugged and gently scooped him into her lap. “He can’t drive with you there, James. And you don’t want to be elbowed when he’s upshifting.”

“Ffft! Rrrwwmm nyrrng reow, ffrywwn.”

“ _You_ may ride in the floorboard if you’re going to complain.”

Bucky snorted – _That wasn’t the problem!_ – but settled across Natasha’s legs. She meant well, even if she _had_ agreed to Clint’s less than sane plan. And, to be fair, Bucky had no real way of telling them just _how much_ he knew now; that taking him anywhere near government secrets was probably more dangerous than it had ever been. Anyone else who got those trigger words could make him tell- _Well, not really tell, but still…_ Still, it wasn’t very well thought out, this little day trip, but there wasn’t much Bucky could do about it.

He sat up, carefully stepping onto Natasha’s thigh, paw balanced on the door so that he could look out the window. It was rush hour, and they’d be moving at a crawl for a while yet. With a sigh, Bucky stretched across her lap, nose prodding the inside of her arm as he tried to settle in for a nap. “Grrp. Mrrpreen, ffrywwn.”

“Don’t worry, James. I think they’ll be… relieved to meet you?” Natasha settled her hand across his back with a soft sigh of her own.

•°•°•°☆

Clint hadn’t been sure of what to expect when the three of them walked in through the glass doors, especially when he had the Winter Soldier _literally_ padding along on a leash beside him as they stepped across the SHIELD seal tiled into the floor. Just getting past reception had been an awkward nightmare – any _presumed to be living being_ needed a visitor’s pass, which Provisional Agent Chowdhury had insisted on clipping to J.B.’s collar herself – and it had only gotten worse from there.

The first issue had arisen once they cleared the atrium and passed into the personnel wing. Although there were few people in the hall, everyone they had passed – from the greenest paper pushers to the few surviving senior agents who Clint had known since they trained _him_ – wanted to stop and coo and try to _pet_ J.B., and no amount of polite replies of ‘ _He’s not very social’_ could make them back off. It was the price to pay for posting so many pictures of the not-cat back when Clint thought he was a _cat_ -cat; everyone already felt like they knew him. Natasha’s glowering was marginally more effective at getting people to back off, but only just long enough to get them into the north corridor and up the stairs.

That of course, brought them to their second issue: the hallway. More specifically, the recently finished _wall_ that had completely slipped Clint’s mind. With the update to the facility’s design for the rebuild, they now had to pass it to get to the senior agent and supervisory offices. Clint shouldn’t have been surprised when Sarge froze, causing his arm to jerk when he walked to the end of the leash. He probably would have been overwhelmed, too. It was anybody’s guess which part shocked J.B. the most. The rows of photographs, pictures of former riflemen and snipers stretching back decades? The etched image of his human self, smiling out from the bronze plaque in full dress uniform, dates marking his birth and presumed death? Or maybe just seeing his name written out above it all; _James Buchanan Barnes Memorial Wall_ lettered out in six-inch high bronze.

Sarge stared at it, stock still for a good minute, bi-coloured eyes tracing faces, little head bobbing as he scanned down the rows.

Clint had to wonder: Did he recognize any of them? Had he known anyone?

His ears dipped, head lowered as the not-cat mewled out softly. “Grprewneewn.”

 _Oh._ Maybe J.B. hadn’t _known_ or _recognized_ them so much as _targeted_ them.After all, these were pictures of agents trained as snipers that they’d lost over the years. Working in pairs at most, isolated from their units, they would have been ready targets. Especially from someone sweeping from the outside in, someone who was known for executing entire units without assistance. Someone who knew how to think like one of them, who knew what to look for in picking out the best vantage point for their sort of work. It left Clint wondering: Had Sarge’s other self ever had sights set on him?

Clint heard the jingle of dog tags, but didn’t immediately place it as his roommate beginning to tremble beside him.

Natasha was quicker than he was on picking it up; she was already bending down, very gently scooping J.B. from the floor, then forcing Clint to take hold of him. Hand on his elbow, she tugged, guiding him back toward the stairs that would take them down to Phil’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was Bruce’s letter from chapter 23 that Clint flushed down the toilet. This batch of chapters (28-31) all tie back to the advice he offered in it in some way, too. I might have gotten a little _too_ into the coded letters... just a tad.
> 
> The _wall_ returns! I’m sure Steve will be glad to see it back up!
> 
> For the few people that this might interest, Bucky’s cat sounds actually _do_ have consistent meanings, in as much as cat sounds can. I actually have a separate dictionary for _Buckittese_. (Because, of course, I had to get one step closer to turning _cat noises_ into a friggen conlang.) _“Ffrywwn,”_ is a proper noun: _“Natasha/ Natalia/ Black Widow.”_


	30. Chapter 30

“So, this is him?” Fury squatted on the floor, eye to eye with J.B. as he sat – back rigid and tail flicking quickly behind him – in a chair in Agent Coulson’s office. The director clicked his tongue and nodded as he stood, going back into his lean against Phil’s desk. “ _The_ Winter Soldier, himself; in the fur, in our very presence.”

Phil cleared his throat nervously, gaze flicking to Natasha, then Clint, then back to Fury.

Clint shrugged slightly at his former teammate. It was _weird_ how _not weird_ Fury was being about the whole thing.“You’re taking this pretty well, all things considered, sir.”

“Yes, well, I have had... _extensive_ experience with things that look like cats, then turn out to be something entirely different, Barton.” Fury closed his eye with a soft huff and another of his dismissive nods. “Been at this job a long time. Seen a lot of shit.” He focused his attention back on the not-cat in the chair, seemingly unfazed to be conversing about, and with, a sentient cat who _also_ just so happened to be number one on SHIELD’s list of hostile agents. “So what can you do, _Sergeant?”_

Sarge’s nose twitched. He looked up at Clint before tipping his head to the side, answering the director in the only way he could. “Mrou.”

“Alright, well, talking ain’t on the list.” Fury looked up at him, brows dropping a bit. “Romanov, Barton? What’s he got, hmm? Laser eyes? Super smarts? He fly?”

What kind of cats was Fury used to that _flying_ made the list? _Granted_ , there were _people_ affiliated with SHIELD that could fly, so maybe if _they_ had been turned into cats, it wouldn’t be that unusual a question. Nothing in the Winter Soldier’s file had said he could, though. Or that he shot lasers out of his eyes, for that matter. Clint shook his head.“He hasn’t got too much going on. A bad coffee habit? Occasional nightmares? Some kind of fashion sense, judging by how much he likes the little cat-sized hoodies. He’s a pretty normal guy, really.”

J.B. sat up a bit straighter, not quite preening beside him.

Though it undoubtedly sounded crazy to most, as far as the category ofpeople Clint considered _friends_ went, Sarge was relatively close to average; really, one of the _weirdest_ things about him was the fact that hewas a _cat_. The Hydra file had said their _Asset_ had enhanced strength and healing, but so did Steve… and Jess, and Luke, kinda, and Bruce when he was _angry_. Brainwashing wasn’t _that_ weird, either; a smaller club, certainly, and it still included Jess, too. _That_ was a little weird, maybe? If Clint expanded that to people that had other people living in their brain – temporarily, or on a permanent basis – he could add Bruce, again. Even _former enemy combatants who decided you were better as a friend than an enemy_ included two other people besides Sarge; hell, _former enemy combatants who decided you were better as a friend than an enemy who also speak Russian_ still included ‘Tasha, in addition to J.B.

Natasha took that moment to loudly clear her throat, jerking her head to her left, to the chair set between where they stood. She tapped a finger against the inside of her wrist.

 _Oh, yeah._ There was the fact that the _former_ part of that _former enemy_ wasn’t always true with regard to his roommate. “And, also seventy-odd years of Hydra programming, along with the occasional uncontrollable urge to murder the shit out of things, but we’re… We’re working on that?”

 _That_ got Fury’s attention. His brows might have reached his hairline, if he’d had one to speak of. As it was, the director’s eye widened noticeably. He looked back over his shoulder at Phil before turning that accusing half-glare back on Clint. “How much murder are we talking about?”

“Nobody has been killed by Sergeant Barnes since he came under Agent Barton’s care.” Natasha interjected.

The man leaning against Phil’s desk seemed unimpressed. He sighed out through his nose, then looked back up at both of them. Fury kept staring, waiting for his answer.

They could end up standing here for hours; the Director’s _bullshit_ face was one Clint had seen often enough over the years. Might as well get this over with.Clint glanced back at J.B. before pushing up his sleeve, showing off the patchwork of fading white hashes covering the inside of his left arm.

“Damn!” Fury grasped his wrist, leaning down for a closer look with a hiss. He turned his gaze first to where Sarge sat in the chair, “Went in for the kill, didn’t you, Sergeant Barnes?” before locking his eye on Clint’s face. “A little deeper and you’d have lost some function in that arm, Agent.”

“Sir…” Clint could see Sarge’s head drooping, the not-cat’s fur puffing in agitation even as he leaned in against the corner of the chair, scooting closer to Nat’s side.

Fury turned his arm over, clearly looking at the bite marks – the first over his bicep, the second lower, just past the bend in Clint’s elbow – hissing in through his teeth. “And are those _bite_ marks? Oof!” His eye refocused on J.B. as he spoke. “No wonder Hydra kept a muzzle on you when they let you out.”

“Sir.” Clint pulled his arm back, sliding the sleeve down and carefully repositioning himself between Fury’s judgmental eye and his fluffy roommate. He knew Sarge still felt guilty over the whole incident, and was already down from making it up the hall. Now was not the time for his roommate to realize Clint hadn’t wanted him to know the full extent of how bad it had been. Fury probably had a point – was possibly playing some angle in keeping his words so sharply edged – but that didn’t mean Clint had to, or _did_ , like it.

“Cats can be nasty all on their own, Agent Barton. Even when they’re not triggered up Hydra killing machines.” The director stepped back, arms crossed over his chest. Fury stepped past him and sat on the end of the desk closest to J.B.’s chair. Bending over him while the not-cat stayed tipped in against the arm of the chair, he stared, even as Sarge pulled further into the corner. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose an eye.”

 _That’s enough._ Clint moved himself once more between Fury and Sarge. This time, however, he sat down, careful to leave enough space for his roommate behind him. He felt the nudge against his side and leaned to the left just enough to let J.B. squeeze around him. Still, Clint kept his gaze focused up at the man staring down at them, his voice quietly even as he spoke. “I don’t think I could pull it off as well as you can.”

Whatever Fury had been trying to suss out from that last little stunt, it seemed he’d seen what he was looking for. “Damn right you couldn’t.” With a barked laugh, Fury leaned back, finally turning away and addressing Natasha. “Anything else I ought to know?”

“James’ memory is a little patchy, and he can still be controlled, at least in part, using the Hydra trigger phrases.” Natasha perched on the right arm of the chair, effectively bracketing J.B. from the other side as she answered. “We’re looking into possible options for de-programming him.”

“‘ _We’?_ As I understood it, it was you two and the _good_ Dr. Banner. Is that all there is to this _we_ , Romanov?”

Sarge looked between them both from where he had settled on Clint’s thigh. They hadn’t filled him in on _that_ on the trip up either. Plausible deniability coupled with the need to keep him calm had stopped that discussion before it started; good thing, too, since there was _no way_ this wasn’t putting J.B. on edge. “It’s still a portion of the team.”

“How large a portion?”

“One other…” This was it. Clint knew that _hiding_ something from Fury was bad enough; outright _lying_ to him would see them both on shit assignments for the foreseeable future, with Sarge locked ending up who knew where; at least unless the outcome was good. Clint had been waiting for _this_ particular shoe to drop for close to two years, though he hadn’t wanted to deal with it right now. “… _individual_ has offered to assist.”

From the edge of his vision, Clint could see Phil’s head tip just to the side, one hand pinched into an _F_ as he turned it; half the sign, but enough. Phil understood this was a family issue, and it looked like _that_ cat might be out of the bag for Fury as well, and Clint with no way to put it back.

“I’m guessing this individual ain’t Rogers-” Sarge’s ears twitched at that. “-or Stark, since nobody’s gotten blown up or tossed out a window down there recently.”

Fury stood, beginning to pace away. He spoke, again, when he turned, looking back to Natasha, again. “This wouldn’t happen to be someone you let escape – maybe even sprung off The Raft – after the Sokovia Accords failed, would it, Agent Romanov?”

“I was assigned to monitor progress on the Accords.” Natasha had been there at ground zero when that whole catastrophe went down. With the Sokovia Accords indefinitely tabled, someone had decided to start an international incident on which they were _still_ having to do diplomatic clean-up. Nat had the shrapnel scars, medical records, and footage from dozens of cellphones to show that she had, in fact, been there when the bombs went off.“I was not on The Raft during that time, nor was I made aware of the list of… _guests_ being housed there, Director Fury. I can’t be certain who may or may not have escaped following their failure. Sir.”

“Hmm. Well, then, I _guess_ it’s a good thing I asked _you_ , isn’t it?” The look Fury leveled his way told Clint he already knew… but, at least for now, wasn’t going to intervene. “Either way, this whole side-gig you two have going is getting a little big to keep contained. Wouldn’t you say so, Agent Coulson?”

Phil looked distinctly uncomfortable – a rare sight given how generally nonplussed he was about most things – and sighed softly as he answered. “The number of people aware of it is much _higher_ than we might have wanted, but things appear to have gotten rather… _complicated_ as they progressed.”

“Well, that’s usually how this shit goes.” Once more seated on Phil’s desk, Fury leaned back, face more exasperated than angry, at least. “So, what did you need from _me_ , Agents?”

“Just to tell you that this operation is going to stay under Agent Coulson’s purview until we finish.” Clint squared his shoulders, sitting up as tall as he could in the chair, doing his best to fill the space. He might not like throwing his size around often, but this was one instance where he wanted to prove a point. Natasha straightened fully beside him, one hand resting on the back of the chair, and even J.B. seemed to gather himself up a bit atop Clint’s leg. “You’re right, Director Fury; it doesn’t need any more eyes on it.”

“I take it you’re not asking for permission, Hawkeye?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then I _suppose_ this operation is officially your problem now, Agent Coulson.” Fury looked back over his shoulder. “From this point forward, any objectives related to this are solely under your supervision. And, yes, that goes up to and including deceiving whatever other current mission agents you may have, too; even your _good friend,_ when he gets here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any Fury stans in the audience, but there had to be at least one person that just didn’t like Buckitty. Just one.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nobody _asked_ for more concerned and overprotective Phil, but here’s more of that, anyway. This was the last chapter in this particular batch, so it will be a bit (probably at least two weeks) before another gets posted.

Phil Coulson did not panic. It never resolved a situation, and was usually a waste of needed energy, but he really did want to scream right now. Not that this was a _bad_ outcome – not by any means – but he hadn’t been prepared to be the _sole_ decision maker on this mission; at least, not the _acknowledged_ one, even if he had been doing most of the operations work for _Repatriation_ from the word go. He hadn’t planned on keeping up this operation – had hoped to have wrapped it in a few weeks – but he wasn’t too keen on someone else taking over when his former teammates were literally neck-deep in it, either. “Director?”

“Look, as much as we might be able to use the feather in our cap for bringing in the Winter Kitten over there right this minute – don’t think Rogers didn’t ask me about that, Barton – I do not want to deal with the fallout of telling _anyone_ that SHIELD couldn’t even find a _cat_ for two damn years.” That laugh was one he’d heard many times. Fury always seemed surprised, at least a bit, when someone under his command out-did his expectations for failure.

It _was_ unsettling to think that two years of work by multiple SHIELD teams, plus Ironman, Captain America, and Phil, himself, had been outmatched by someone who – according to what little Clint and Natasha had shared – had been a confused amnesiac with only three little paws the whole time. If they had _known_ where to look in the first place, that might have helped. If all of this hadn’t been happening during SHIELD’s forced restructuring, it would have been easier. If they hadn’t had to send Black Widow, Hawkeye, Falcon, and Captain America – even _Ant-Man_ – all over creation hunting down so many rogue Strike agents and undercover Hydra operatives, maybe they _might_ have had the time to put things together, but… No matter how one looked at it, all of their work had yielded fewer results than two former Strike Team agents using old-fashioned espionage and one coincidental lead. “It is a rather _unusual_ case, sir.”

“That it is. If Romanov and Barton think they can handle it, then they’ll handle it.” The director shifted his attention back to the the other two agents in the room. “If the two of you think you can get him back to normal, and that normal doesn’t leave anybody else _dead_ , we might even be able to find a place for Sergeant Barnes. You helped pull together our last moon-shot team, and we _could_ do worse.” Fury pushed off from his desk, pacing toward the far wall, hands behind his back as he shrugged. “And if not, we all might get to see whether _cats_ float away as easily as _witches_.”

Phil could feel the temperature in the room drop as the director left _that_ to hang in the air. He knew that both Clint and Natasha were smart enough not to rise to that barb, just as sure as he knew that Clint was moments away from getting out of that chair and doing something incredibly foolhardy.

He interjected, trying to cut the tension in the only way he could think of that wouldn’t end with someone in lock-up or medical. “In either case, given the uptick in chatter around New York presumed to be coming from Hydra operatives, perhaps it’s time for the Sergeant to retire from moonlighting as the, um, Big Bird Cat?”

“Good idea. In fact, why don’t you we go ahead and do that right now? Take a selfie? Let your crazy auntie think he’s living on base?”

That might work. While the general public didn’t know who Nick Fury was, everyone that might be after the former Winter Soldier – although _Winter Kitten_ was pretty catchy – would know who the Director of SHIELD was. He wasn’t one to hide his identity from their enemies, even if he didn’t exactly seem like the selfie type. “Sir, you would…?”

“Aw, _hell_ , no.” This laugh was real, and startling; Clint and Natasha tensed where they sat, and for good reason. Fury rarely _just_ laughed.“Goose is pretty territorial. I don’t even know what’ll happen when he _smells_ another cat on me.”

Fury waved his hand in Phil’s direction. “Nobody outside this building knows exactly _what_ you do, Coulson, except for the kind of people we _want_ to see this, so go on.”

 _Ah._ That explained it. In one way or another, Phil had worked with nearly everyone they hadn’t been able to catch, those who had disappeared or defected when they’d rooted out the Hydra plants within the organization. They would all recognize his face, and he really _didn’t_ ever seem to get off base, anymore. While it would make any facility he might be assigned to a target, it would likely pull the search out of New York City specifically, at least for a short while. Deception or not, part of him thought it might be better to _actually_ keep Sergeant Barnes here, but that presented its own problems.

If Wanda Maximoff or Dr. Banner _could_ help, they probably wouldn’t be willing to do it here. Banner avoided government buildings at all costs – unless he had to get his passport stamped – and Miss Maximoff was still technically a wanted _and_ powered fugitive escapee from the most advanced prison on Earth. Even if he _had_ aided in said escape, Phil would still be expected to detain her, again. Bringing Sergeant Barnes into the facility would also open the whole mission up for discussion and review, which would bring along too many awkward and, frankly, _dangerous_ questions for which Phil didn’t yet have answers. Was Sergeant Barnes stable enough for regular interactions, and who would monitor him? Could they guarantee his safety, even among loyal SHIELD employees, if his identity as the Winter Soldier got out? How was anyone going to explain to Captain Rogers during any of his rather frequent visits that the man he’d known as Sergeant Bucky Barnes was, at present, a _cat?_

In the moment Phil had taken to run up the tally of why it actually _was_ a good idea _not_ to keep Sergeant Barnes on base, the cat- Well, the _man_ in question had jumped from Hawkeye’s leg and up unto his desk. Barnes was looking at him in what Phil guessed was a quizzical manner, head tilted to one side as he meowed out, “Mrrpreen mya?”

“Certainly.” It had _seemed_ like a polite question – as strange a thought as that might be – and apparently that was exactly what it was.

Sergeant Barnes padded closer, stepping over his arm and leaning almost delicately against his side. He looked back at Hawkeye, asking, “Mrou?”

“Maybe scoot in a little, J.B.?” Clint had slid out his phone and was already lining up a shot. He offered a forced smile up at Phil, eyes momentarily cutting to where Fury was nonchalantly glowering down at his phone and muttering to himself. “Try to look happy.”

Phil plastered on his brightest _talking to civilians_ smile, leaning in to put his chin on Sergeant Barnes’ head and tugging him even closer, until he was all but leaning back against Phil’s tie. Barnes didn’t exactly seem too comfortable with it, but he held still long enough for Clint to take a few pictures, anyway.

“Got it!”

The both of them pulled away immediately, Phil sliding back into his seat as Sergeant Barnes trotted away to the corner of the desk closest to Clint and Natasha. Phil couldn’t blame him; the last half few minutes had constituted one of the most awkward and unpleasant meetings he’d ever had, certainly ranking top among the worst for this year. At least, so far. There was still the meeting he was due to have in – Phil checked the schedule on his screen – five min- _Wait!_ Who had moved it _earlier?_ “Send it off in the car, Hawkeye. Director, were you aware of the schedule change?”

“Just got the updated _reminder_ now; damn thing changes so often I usually ignore it.” Fury glanced down at his phone with a sigh, then looked back up at group clustered in and around Phil’s other chair. “I am officially assigning you both to Mission Repatriation for the duration. Barton, as Barnes’ new SHIELD – well – we’ll call you his _liaison_ , you’re off field assignments indefinitely. Romanov, as needed. Dismissed.”

Clint stood, but looked confusedly between the two of them. Phil could see Natasha reaching for her phone as Clint asked. “Sir?”

“Get out of here, Barton. This stunt you’ve pulled is awfully close to insubordination, so don’t think I didn’t add another mark to your tally, but get out. I may not like what he’s done since Hydra got a hold of him, but I have a lot of respect for the Sergeant over there.” The director sighed, tugging at his collar. “On top of _that_ , though, Barnes is real damn fluffy, and fuck if some part of me doesn’t still want to pet him.”

“And, since nothing can ever be _simple_ around here, there’s the little issue that somebody saw an opening in mine and Agent Coulson’s schedules and bumped up our three-pm.” Fury swept past them and out the door, holding it open, stance set just so, blocking the view of the cameras outside. “You know who is due to be here in five minutes, and – if he hasn’t hit traffic – you _know_ he’ll be here early. Dismissed.”

“Shit! I’ll take the roof and get the truck.” Clint spoke over his shoulder as he bolted into the hallway. “Meet you at the south tarmac.”

With Fury still standing at parade rest in the hall, Phil nodded to the woman and cat still left in the room. “Agent Romanov, I’ll escort you and Sergeant Barnes out to the south exit through the emergency tunnel? Just to avoid any unpleasant run-ins.”

“Phil, could you take James down on your own?” Natasha typed something into her phone, glance flicking to the cat now standing at her side before her mouth pulled into a resolute grimace. “He’s already here. It would probably be better if he didn’t linger and _chat_ along the way.”

“Mrou?”

It was a question that Phil had no intention of answering. Natasha and Clint might me _working_ on getting Barnes stable, but that was an ongoing task. Phil had written all of the files they’d reviewed himself, in addition to organizing the, admittedly limited, video footage of the Winter Soldier; he knew _exactly_ what his orders had been. Cordial or not, unstable was unstable. It was disheartening, certainly – if anything, he knew quite well how it felt to have a team hiding things from him – but he also knew how important it could be in the long run. Phil huffed a small sigh, tilting his head to look back at her. “That presents a problem.”

“I can handle it, but a warning would have been nice.” Her work smile was already on, though Phil had no doubt it would look genuine by the time she got down there. Natasha handed him Barnes’ leash, standing on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek. “Tell Hawkeye I’ve got a ride home.”

“Do you have a helmet?” He returned with a quick hug before motioning her ahead of him towards the door, relieved to see Sergeant Barnes keeping pace at his heel. “He doesn’t have the best driving record.”

“None of us do.”

“That’s why LOLA stays in the garage when I’m not driving her.”

“I’ll see you when I can, Phil. Thank you.” Natasha knelt, gently patting one finger between Barnes’s ears. “Make sure Hawkeye doesn’t wreck the truck, James.” With that, she slipped in front of the director, and they both started off down the hallway. With the two of them walking abreast, it would be difficult for anyone to recognize him as he walked in the opposite direction behind them, even if that person might have _perfect_ eyesight.

Phil sighed, locking his office and kneeling in front of the leashed cat. “We can move faster if I carry you, but I wouldn’t want to presume.”

Sergeant Barnes almost looked like he rolled his eyes, and he did huff, but he still nodded and allowed Phil to pick him up, leash wrapped around his hand. Phil hurried his way to the end of the hall, down the stairs, all the way to the basement corridor, and tapped his badge to access the pass-through tunnel reserved for emergencies. Phil hadn’t ever thought that _‘keep a cat away from Captain America’_ would make it onto the emergency protocol list, but that was, he supposed, just another perk of this job. _Never a dull day._ “So, they renamed you _Snowman?”_

“Mrou.”

“Hmm…” He really _did_ wish he’d had time to ask Clint how he and Natasha _talked_ with Barnes. It would have made this much easier, at least. “Well, that’s an odd choice. Any idea why?”

“Mrrp. Mrou?” The Sergeant Barnes tipped his head back to look upwards, eyes narrowed, ears flicking in what looked like agitation.

“Just trying to have a conversation. The three of us were a team for a long time.” Phil tipped his head, then ducked through the first of the fire hatches. If _he_ was having to bend down to pass through, there would be serious issues for some of their larger agents. He’d have to make a note of that once he finished this strange errand. “More like family than anything, so _we_ look after each other.”

Barnes actually really looked at him, then, blinking a moment.

 _Good._ Phil had wanted to get his attention. He’d been watching the way Sergeant Barnes interacted with his _technically_ former teammates; there was a familiarity there, friendly with Natasha, absurdly casual with Clint. It wasn’t unusual, really. It was how they seemed to get on with most people, but Barnes wasn’t like _most_ anything any of them had ever encountered, and only just did qualify as _people_ right now. It wasn’t that Phil was some sort of mother hen – he’d have died ten times over from stress ulcers if _that_ was the case – but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t intervene when he thought it necessary. Phil let himself look down at the Sergeant with a smile, one that he knew wasn’t altogether pleasant.

The cat blinked, almost seeming to consider before he asked, “Mrourou?”

“I just wouldn’t want to be the responsible party if something were to happen to them, that’s all. Most of us aren’t as…” Phil kept his tone light – that _always_ made the promises seem _worse_ – and turned the last corner that would put them at the far end of the quinjet landing area once they got above ground.“… _forgiving_ as Clint Barton can be.”

Barnes remained silent as they started up the stairs.

“But I’m certain they’ll be fine, though. There isn’t another _acceptable_ option, at least not in my book. Don’t you agree, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Mro- Mroureep?”

“Sounds like we’re on the same page. Good to hear.” He had to switch the Sergeant to his left arm to swipe his badge, keying through the last of the security doors.

For his part, Sergeant Barnes loosed a soft, hissing sneeze, batting his lone front paw gently – probably – against the back of Phil’s hand. The cat looked up at him, ears lowered, but two-coloured eyes wide. “Mrou?”

“Oh, that. If you manage to get back on two legs, there have been some wonderful advancements in prosthetics and limb replacement. Top notch stuff. Can’t feel as much as I remember, but people can’t tell the difference normally.” Phil switched Barnes back to his right arm, flexing the fingers of his left hand, then holding it out flat under the fluorescent hallway lights. “I’m told integration is even easier if you’ve been _alive_ the whole time.”

At that, Barnes’ head tilted at such a sharp angle that Phil almost overbalanced and dropped him. “Mreow?!”

“I guess Clint and Natasha told you as little about me as they told me about you.” He didn’t often want to put people ill at ease, but maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to do, just this once. Better than letting Barnes think he might get off free and clear if he wasn’t on board to resolve his… _issues_. It was important that he understood there were alternative options should he be less than cooperative, and from whom those options would becoming. Phil pushed through the rear exit door, catching sight of a familiar battered truck. “We’ll have time for all that, later; your ride’s waiting.”

Clint was idling at the close end of the south tarmac. The window rolled down as Phil hurried over. “Where’s Widow?”

“Running cover.” Phil handed Sergeant Barnes in through the truck window, careful not to let the leash catch or tug on anything. He didn’t miss that backward glance he got before the cat settled onto the passenger side of the bench seat. “She said to tell you she had a ride home.”

“Thought that might happen.” Clint’s smile bordered on indulgent, though he sounded almost disappointed. “She’s got a spare helmet in her locker.”

“Really?” Phil was honestly surprised at that. He could see it, had thought _something_ might have been going on, at least on Steve’s end, but… well, _this_ whole thing might put a bit of a strain on all of that, probably soon, if it hadn’t already. “Wouldn’t have guessed. Should we be worried?”

“Not about her, but maybe?” Clint offered a shrug and a quick wave as he drove off.

Phil Coulson shook his head, pulling up his best pleasantly neutral face as he walked back into the building. He could do this. He _could_ , even if he didn’t _want_ to. After all, he had just helped the Winter Soldier escape a SHIELD facility. He could just as _certainly_ go back into that same building and lie to Captain America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Buckitty is more worried by Phil than Fury. _Maybe…_
> 
> On the other hand, he just got to meet another guy with a prosthetic left hand who lots of people thought was dead, and who _also_ happens to know Steve Rogers and be very concerned for Clint Barton’s safety so… Bonding over shared life experiences?
> 
> Okay, he has been guilt-tripped, scared, both overtly an subtly threatened, and had to be smuggled out of a covert government facility. I promise, on my honour, to do one nice thing for Bucky next chapter. At least one. Maybe small, but _one…_ Anybody else? Fair game.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be too mean to Bucky this chapter. Our other favourite centenarian, though? Fair game, dear reader. Fair game.

☆°•°•°•

 _ **Steven G.**_  
[ _Appointment got moved up to this morning, so I’m upstate._ ]  
[ _I just got here, but I’ll be finished and headed back by 13._ ]  
[ _Any chance you’d be free for dinner?_ ]

 _ **ArachNat**_  
[ _On-site myself. Quick review with Coulson._ ]  


…

…

 _ **ArachNat**_  
[ _I wouldn’t mind a ride home._ ]

…

…

 _ **Steven G.**_  
[ _Bike seats 2._ ]

…

…

 _ **ArachNat**_  
[ _I remember._ ]  
[ _Look to your left._ ]

☆°•

Steve had only just gotten up to the door, but it was easy to spot Natasha, even if she had mostly forgone black, and was wearing, “Jeans?”

She held open the second set of doors as they walked into the atrium, “It was a casual meeting.”

“I’d say so.” Steve waved, like always, to the agents working the reception desk. He was up here often enough that it would have seemed rude not to, though it had been nearly a month since his last visit. The email alert for the earlier meeting time had come in just after he got back from his run, so Steve had been in a little bit of a rush – and _might_ have been speeding once he got out of the city – but he hadn’t been late. _Or caught._ Natasha had needed to be here earlier than he had, and much earlier than he had planned to be, but Steve wished he’d known she was coming. “I could have given you a ride.”

Natasha shrugged, falling into step beside him as they walked past reception. “I’m _sure_ you could have.”

Steve knew she was looking up at him, waiting to see if he’d blush or falter; this wasn’t the first time he and Nat had played this game. _First at work, though._ He kept his eyes straight ahead, posture perfect, ignoring her until she huffed lightly.

“It was an old Delta thing, so Clint was coming, anyway.” They turned, heading up the north corridor. “I’d hug you, but-”

He would have liked to hug her, too, but they _were_ colleagues, and Steve honestly had no idea how to navigate the whole public display of affection minefield. Especially not _here._ “Too many eyes on?”

“And I’m covered in cat hair because-” She cut herself off, then sighed. “Because Scribbles came up with us and got across my lap in the truck.”

“Ah, the mysterious _Scribbles_.” First, Steve had thought the cat was part of an ongoing competition. Then that it was some sort of sick prank. Now, though, he was seriously beginning to worry about whether Clint was alright. _Mentally._ He’d asked at Christmas, and Natasha had blamed work, but Steve had noticed Hawkeye’s ongoing absence, and it coincided with getting a new pet. Steve wasn’t sure which had come first – the cat or the change in behaviour – but he _was_ concerned. Yes, they’d all been busy as usual, and even _he_ had needed to be exceptionally secretive for a while, but Steve had only seen Clint a handful of times since September, and it was _May._ “Has Hawkeye seemed _off_ to you since he got that cat? I mean… is he doing _okay_ , Natasha?”

“I think he’s just glad to have a… a furry _friend_ around, Steve. Lucky has mostly been with the other Hawkeye, and Clint’s been handling a lot of solo work, since _that_ seems to be going around.” Natasha smirked up at him; Steve knew a callout when he heard one. She stepped in closer as they walked, until they were as near as they could be without touching, though her hand brushed his hip as they headed up the stairs. “At least he’s not spending all of his time alone…”

“True, but he used to bring Lucky around at least.”

“Well, Scribbles is not really a friendly sort of cat, though…” Natasha let that sentence hang until they reached the proper floor. “He only just got past tolerating me, and he’s torn Clint up a few times. You probably wouldn’t want to meet him just yet, anyway.”

“Really? I know Clint’s got a soft spot for animals, but why would he keep a cat like that?” Despite only recently even being able to get _near_ pets, Steve had always liked animals. _Nice_ animals. Preferably ones that wouldn’t claw or chomp on him. “If he’s that antisocial, maybe he might be too much, even for Clint. Has he been, you know, _fixed?”_

Natasha froze beside him, arms crossing over her chest as she looked up. Steve couldn’t be sure if her smile was pissed-off or bemused, at least until she spoke, tilting her head into a shrug as she chuckled. “I don’t think so, but… he’s getting better, and you know how Clint is about his charity cases.” Her gaze shifted, probably subconsciously, down to her own crossed arms.

Steve sighed; he hated when she referred to herself that way, and she _knew_ that he hated it, just like _he_ knew he wouldn’t ever win the argument over it. “Yeah, well… I’m grateful for that habit of his.”

“Oh?”

Even if he was trying to maintain his neutral expression, Steve wasn’t able to keep the soft smile fully hidden. It was only thanks to Clint _being_ such a fuck-your-rules softy that Steve _could_ smile about this, after all. He stopped to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his pocket, nodding back at Nat with his best smug wink. “You know why.”

“I might.” Natasha pinched her mouth together, fighting a smile, herself. “I’ll pick you up out back. It’ll save the trouble of trying to escape through the lobby at shift change.”

“I didn’t give you the…” Steve’s fingers brushed the seam at the bottom of his notedly empty pocket, just about the time he heard a soft jingle. “… keys.”

“I’ll be in the cafeteria.” Natasha waved the keys to his apartment and motorcycle over her shoulder as she walked back toward the stairs. “Text me.”

He patted his other pocket, just to make sure Nat hadn’t lifted his phone this time, too. Steve called after her, “Bring along some cake?”

“No promises. It’s German chocolate today.”

Steve laughed as he started back. He’d once thought to ask Nat which she liked more – him, or cake – but Steve was honestly the teensiest bit scared he’d lose out to sweets. _Oh, well._ A battle well fought, at least, and no point sitting around getting sappy; he’d already been a little behind schedule even before their chat. Steve broke into a quick jog, turning the corner, then coming to such an abrupt standstill that he almost slid on the linoleum.

 _Oh_.

They’d finished it. Steve stayed where he was at the far end of the hall, taking a moment to look at the plaque mounted there. The rebuild team had asked him to choose the picture, to approve the first casting. – _“There is no surviving next of kin, Captain Rogers.”_ – He wondered if they’d set it at actual height on purpose, since the face was life-sized, anyway. _Probably._ It seemed _wrong_ , seeing Bucky’s face and _knowing_ ; that that _hadn’t_ been the end, that – in a way – the last of Bucky had only died two years ago. But it was better this way. Whatever the _thing_ Hydra had kept all that time might have been, it hadn’t really been _Bucky_. Better that the world remember him this way than… _like that._ His best friend had died falling from that train, and that was all there was to it.

Steve had tried looking, wasted a year pushing away most of his team and following false leads for nothing. In the end, it had just been him, alone, at the edge of a cliff. _Fitting, really._

He needed to move on, even _if_ that felt like something other people did. He was a year out from that, and – though there were still the _bad_ days that left Steve with sore hands and a pile of murdered heavy bags and broken charcoal pencils – things had gotten better. SHIELD had finally re-settled after imploding once Hydra’s involvement came to light; the facility, including this stupid _wall_ , was proof of that. He and Tony could hold civil, maybe even friendly, conversations. Steve had actually _seen_ Bruce this year, multiple times, and was getting back to talking to Clint; he was _trying_ , anyway, at least asking after him like he had today, or whenever he saw Natasha, and… This thing they had going was certainly good. _Complicated_ , but good.

Steve ran his hand through his hair, catching sight of his watch. _Ten past._ He tried his best to wipe the dour scowl off his face. Agent Coulson was too nice a guy to have to suffer through his brooding.

•°•°•°☆

Bucky blinked awake as the truck bounced on a rutted section of road. He growled, leaning dozily into Clint’s leg. His roommate dropped his hand, giving Bucky a light pat. “We got off pretty easy, but that still sucked.”

“Mrrp.” He nodded, pressing more closely in against Clint’s thigh. Bucky _always_ hated not being able to actually talk – to express anything more complex than might be expected from a toddler – but it was awful when he was upset. Worse still now that he had the presence of mind to know that _most_ of what they’d dealt with had been necessary, at least from Director Fury’s perspective. Fury – and by extension, SHIELD – was being _very_ lenient. Had it been Hydra, Bucky would have been back on ice or _worse_ , with whatever might be left of Clint on its way to a clandestine burial.

Bucky huffed out through his nose.

It had been too much, all at once, especially with him having been up all night. The hallway had brought up images of seeing himself in the mirror, hugging his ma and Becca, them and Stevie seeing him off when he went, but it had also brought up the careful targeting – sight, adjust, time the breath, shoot – stalking those agents like animals, leaving only bloody husks and rumours in his wake. Only a handful, but still… _Still._ So many people that might have lived back then – might _still_ be alive, now – if Bucky really _had_ died on the day that plaque said he had.

And then that damn meeting afterwards? Bucky had been prepared for someone like Fury. Nobody who could manage an organization like SHIELD _and_ wrangle together such a mismatched team as the Avengers was going to be altogether sane, let alone normal. Director Fury had been exactly the kind of cracked-egg, ball-buster of a commander that Bucky had expected. He might not have handled himself too well in the man’s presence, still coming down from his earlier shock in the hall, but Bucky couldn’t say he’d been surprised by him. Nick Fury was… _eccentric_ , but he wasn’t too far removed from the man Bucky had come to know through the Hydra files crammed into the _Asset’s_ brain.

Phil Coulson, though? That man seemed frighteningly _normal,_ and his normalcy was equally _frightening_. It hadn’t taken Bucky more than his little mention during their walk to the exit to put together that Phil was the _dead_ friend from Clint’s nightmares, walking around pleasant-as-you-please, deferential and polite and fucking terrifying in a way Bucky couldn’t have put words to, even if he _could_ talk. He could definitely respect the man, maybe even grow to like him, but – thinking back on it – Bucky was mostly just grateful SHIELD, the _real_ SHIELD, had gotten to Coulson first. With his seemingly unflappable nature and complete nonchalance in the face of something as ridiculous as Bucky himself, Phil Coulson would have made an excellent Hydra operative. And, even if he’d threatened him, Bucky was glad the man was looking after Clint when he worked.

Natasha as well, wherever she might have run off to.

Bucky was still a little confused about exactly _why_ she’d needed to stay behind; the end of that meeting had started to get hazy once he was fighting not to panic over the threat of being sent to The Raft. Hydra had been involved in some of the design, of course, so Bucky could have been able to escape had he been human, but as he was _now?_ Not a chance, and he still couldn’t comfortably think too long about being locked up.

Bucky huffed softly, curling his tail around his face, tucking into the little corner made by Clint’s leg and the back of the bench seat. Sleeping was easier than thinking right now, and he was a cat, after all; it came naturally enough.

☆°•°•°•

Clint was exhausted. Nine hours on the road, with thirty minutes of peak Fury and ten minutes of utter insanity in the middle would do that.

J.B. definitely agreed; he’d spent nearly all of the ride back asleep, with only a few moments of drowsy brooding in between naps. No nightmares, though. _Not yet, anyway._

Clint had felt himself yawning even before they crossed the bridge. They’d be home soon, and – with it going on six – food would probably help the tiredness. Steve’s abrupt arrival had meant skipping lunch, and stopping might have woken the not-cat sleeping beside him. He wasn’t up to cooking tonight, and he didn’t want to go straight home, either. Clint had no intention of driving around fighting for parking, but it felt like he and J.B. had effectively been on house arrest for weeks. They needed a break, especially after today. Going out to dinner would be a welcome treat. If they stuck close to the apartment, there were enough places where he was a regular that wouldn’t care if Sarge came with him, either. That would also give them some time to decompress before they inevitably crashed.

He woke J.B. once the truck was safely parked behind the building, smiling as he watched the not-cat stretch and blink. Even if he was potentially murderous and _technically_ human, he was still cute.

Sarge sat up, yawning, paw grooming back the fur of his face. “Mrou?”

“Hey, buddy. I was thinking. Why don’t we go out to dinner?” Clint watched him as he nodded, sitting up with another yawn, folded ears flicking atop his head. He scooped Sarge off the seat one handed locking the truck and starting off down the street. “Great. Deli sound good?”

J.B. shrugged and pawed his arm, squirming until Clint loosed his hold enough that he could claw his way up onto Clint’s shoulder. The not-cat snorted softly, bi-coloured eyes shifting from Clint to the apartment building as he considered that offer.

For his part, Clint was dead set against cooking, or even going home just yet. It felt too much like going to ground after a failed mission. He could sweeten the deal. “They have mocha peanut butter cheesecake. And very good pastrami.”

His roommate perked up beside him, tail swishing to curl against Clint’s neck before he nodded. J.B. pawed his hood back up over his head, turning expectantly back to Clint. “Mroureep?”

Clint reached up, tucking his ears properly through the hood. “Guess that’s the plan then, Sarge?”

“Mrrp.”

“Cool.”

•°•°•°☆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I kept my word and did something mildly nice for Bucky; naps and peanut butter cheesecake are a start, at least.


End file.
